A  GAME  AT  LOVE 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

BY 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 

u 


NEW  YORK 

MOFFAT,   YARD   AND   COMPANY 
19X4 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY  BRENTANO's 

ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS*  HALL 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO    JAMES  HUNEKER 


899166 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  ix 

A  GAME  AT  LOVE  I 

THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT  21 

FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES  39 

A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY  57 

THE  BUTTERFLY:  A  MORALITY  73 

OPINIONS  AND  NOTICES  95 


PREFACE 

THESE  plays  are  unplayable.  They  were  not, 
at  least,  written  with  an  eye  to  the  stage. 
The  last  I  have  called  a  Morality,  a  name  that 
could  hardly,  with  propriety,  be  applied  to  the 
others.  They  point  out  no  moral,  they  teach  no 
lesson,  and  the  reader  may  feel  assured  that  the 
obvious  interpretation  is  in  no  case  the  author's 
own.  Certain  truths,  as  I  have  seen  them,  are  here 
set  down,  but  I  decline  to  be  held  responsible  for 
anything  that  my  characters  may  say  or  do. 

I  have  taken  the  climacteric  moments  of  imagi 
nary  novels  and  have  embodied  them  in  dramatic 
sketches.  This  method  constitutes  a  rebellion 
against  that  species  of  psychological  fiction  which, 
in  six  hundred  pages,  succeeds  in  telling  us  no 
thing.  For,  as  intellectual  intercourse  between  na 
tions  becomes  more  intimate,  and  the  body  of  lit 
erature  of  each  country  is  augmented  by  that  of 
the  others,  it  will  inevitably  become  a  requirement 
that  the  individual  work  of  art  shall  be  diminished 
in  bulk.  Homer  could  write  a  poem  in  twenty- 
four  books  with  impunity.  Not  so  the  modern 
artist.  Nor  is  there  any  legitimate  reason  why  we 
should  take  up  twice  twenty-four  hours  of  a  read 
er's  time  with  a  story  that  could  be  told  no  less 
effectively  in  ten  minutes. 

I  have  laid  some  stress  upon  the  fact  that  men 
and  women  communicate  with  each  other  not  by 
articulate  speech  alone,  but  by  a  quiver  of  the  eye- 


IX 


PREFACE 

lid  or  a  curl  of  the  lip.  And  I  have  left  nothing 
unexpressed  that  seemed  to  contribute  to  a  de 
sired  effect,  even  at  the  risk  of  offending  such  as 
would  close  the  mouth  of  the  Muse  with  that 
muzzle  which,  if  applied  at  all,  should  be  con 
fined  to  that  many-headed  monster — the  press. 
The  expressions,  Man-Animal  and  Woman-Ani 
mal,  mayjar  on  sensitive  souls,  who  rather  than  con 
front  a  problem  of  erotics  would  follow  the  time- 
honoured  policy  of  the  ostrich;  but  I  know  of  no 
combination  of  words  equally  decisive  and  indica 
tive  of  my  meaning. 

It  may  be  charged  against  the  dialogue  that  it  is 
at  times  unnatural,  and  that  no  one  of  normal  sanity 
would  ever  dream  of  speaking  the  language  of  the 
persons  in  these  plays.  This  may  be  true  or  not. 
Certain  it  is,  that  such  is  the  language  they  should 
have  used,  and,  wherever  their  vocabulary  did  not 
suffice,  it  was  the  good  fortune  of  the  present 
writer  to  be  able  to  assist  them. 

GEORGE  SYLVESTER  VIERECK 


I 

A  GAME  AT  LOVE 


CHARACTERS 
CLARENCE  (forty) 
IRENE  (between  thirty  and  forty) 
EVA  (somewhat  younger) 


I 

(An  elegant  Boudoir.  A  desk  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl.  Bric-a-brac.  Pictures.) 

(EvA,  blonde -,  somewhat  languishing^  rocks  herself 
in  a  dainty  rocking-chair.  As  she  swings  to  and  fro 
one  gets  a  glimpse  of  her  little  feet.  She  holds  an  unlit 
cigarette  in  her  hand.) 

(IRENE,  dark^  of 'fuller  form ,  reclines  upon  a  couch. 
Her  face  is  that  of  a  woman  who  has  lived  much. 
She  puffs  vigorously  at  a  cigarette  and  blows  fan 
tastic  rings  into  the  air.) 

IRENE.  Yes,  tell  me  all  about  it.  I  am  interested. 
They  say — 

EVA.  What  do  they  say? 

IRENE  (with  emphasis). — That  he  is  not  like  other 
men;  that  there  is  some  secret  in  his  life,  per 
haps — 

EVA.  It  is  no  longer  any  secret  to  me. 
IRENE.  Is  it  possible  that  you  know? 
EVA.  I  know  that  he  is  a  bedizened  doll,  a  tailor's 
dummy. 

IRENE  (looks  at  her  intently ,  but  is  silent]. 
EVA.  When  I  think  how  I  adored  him,  what  depths 
I  sought  in  those  mystic  eyes,  what  secrets  in  that 
smile  —  every  fibre  of  my  body  revolts. 
IRENE.  And  what  did  he  do  to  make  the  spell  snap? 
EVA.  Nothing.  That  is  the  very  reason:  He  said 
nothing,  did  nothing.  I  expected  something  new  and 
strange, — nothing  happened.  I  listened,  listened  to 

3 


, :  ,    ,    .A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

the  silver  tones  of  his  voice,  and  heard  a  shallow 
babbling. 

IRENE.  And  yet  you  were  entirely  under  his  influ 
ence.  You  were  fascinated  like  a  little  bird  by  the 
eyes  of  a  snake.  It  was  gruesome  to  behold. 
EVA  (with  heaving  breast).  It  is  true.  He  was  not 
only  a  part  of  my  life,  he  was  my  whole  life.  But 
he  would  not  let  me  share  in  his,  would  not  let 
me  look  more  deeply — perhaps  to  hide  his  own 
want  of  depth.  He  always  behaved  as  though  he 
were  the  giver.  I  gave  him  all — and  he  did  not 
even  say.  Thank  you. 

IRENE  (blowing  the  smoke  thoughtfully  through  her 
nose).  Naturally.  Of  course  it  is  absurd  to  general 
ize.  Still,  you  made  a  mistake  in  tactics.  We  wo 
men  receive  in  love  at  least  as  much  as  we  give.  I 
am  even  inclined  to  believe  that  the  old  Hebrew 
legend  is  not  far  amiss  in  asserting  that  the  Lord 
created  woman  from  a  rib  of  man.  But  neverthe 
less  men  expect  us  to  keep  up  the  old  wives'  tale 
that  we  alone  are  those  who  give.  Our  only  weapon 
is  man's  sensual  grossness.  Upon  this  we  must 
play  in  such  a  manner  that  he  imagines  himself  to 
receive  along  with  its  satisfaction — everything. 
EVA.  I  know  that.  Still  I  was  not  so  calculating 
at  that  time.  And  then,  well,  you  see,  Clarence 
presents  a  different  problem.  He  himself  knows 
all  our  little  arts  and  uses  them — only  too  well. 
And  this  makes  him  master  of  the  situation.  The 
unexpected  takes  one  unawares. 
IRENE.  But  that  is  interesting,  extraordinarily  so. 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

A  woman  can  bring  all  these  little  arts  into  play 
without  violating  her  nature,  because  to  a  genuine 
woman  love  and  motherhood  are  life  itself.  Her 
struggle  for  love  is  her  struggle  for  existence.  We 
fight  for  love  as  men  for  daily  bread.  To  us  it  is 
at  once  a  passion  and  a  vocation.  It 's  different 
with  men.  If  a  man  be  a  real  man,  he  lacks  both 
time  and  inclination  for  these  subtleties.  When  ele 
mental  passion  grips  him,  he  yields  himself  unre 
servedly  and  genuinely;  else  he  is  either  a  roue,  or 
— no  man.  (Eying  EVA  sharply.)  Nature  in  making 
him  played  one  of  her  cruel  tricks.  He  is  a  will-o'- 
the-wisp  which  lures  us  into  abysses  and  to  shim 
mering  swamps. 

EVA.  If  only  the  swamps  into  which  he  leads  us 
were  deep  enough  to  perish  in,  all  would  be  well. 
But  to  soil  one's  feet  in  shallow  mire! .  . .  How  to 
classify  him  I  do  not  quite  know.  It  seems  to  me 
that  he  lacks  all  genuineness  of  emotion.  To  him 
love  is  an  artifice,  and  even  life.  And  yet  (she  lowers 
her  voice)  he  has  a  sensuous  attraction  that  is  pow 
erful,  irresistible. 

IRENE  (with  rising  interest).  And  where  did  he  first 
exert  that  influence?  How  did  you  get  to  know  him? 
EVA  (laying  her  cigarette  aside,  and  resting  her  head 
upon  her  hand).  It  was  this  way.  He  was  intro 
duced  to  me;  I  think  —  by  my  husband.  If  you 
have  seen  him  once,  you  know  how  attractive  he 
is.  I  wanted  to  keep  him  near  me.  Perhaps  because 
Mildred  was  there,  who  thinks  that  no  man  can 
resist  her  charms. 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

IRENE  (interrupting  her  with  a  short  musical  laugh). 
I  think  I  heard  it  said  that  Mildred  and  he  were 
intimate  at  one  time. 

EVA.  They  gave  no  evidence  of  it.  Beyond  the 
conventional  phrases  they  exchanged  neither  word 
nor  look. 

IRENE.  That  makes  it  all  the  more  suspicious.  Thus 
will  you  and  Clarence  meet  when  the  wounds  are 
healed.  Do  you  still  see  him? 
EVA.  He  comes  now  and  then.  People  might  talk 
if  he  were  to  stay  away  entirely.  To-day  he  is  com 
ing  for  another  reason,  that  is,  to  bring  me  my 
letters.  But  I  had  not  finished  telling  you. 
IRENE.  You  were  speaking  of  the  day  on  which  you 
met. 

EVA.  Yes,  on  that  day  he  began  by  irritating  me. 
I  cannot  abide  cynicism  in  men.  He  made  a  num 
ber  of  cynical  remarks,  and  I  treated  him  coolly, 
somewhat  rudely,  in  fact.  But  his  answers  were  deli 
cately  courteous,  and  nothing  ruffled  his  Olympian 
calm. 

IRENE.  What  did  he  say? 

EVA  (involuntarily  imitating  Clarence's  intonation). 
"Dear  lady,"  he  said,  and  let  his  beautiful  eyes 
dwell  upon  mine,  "there  are  two  kinds  of  cynicism. 
One  kind  is  cheap  enough — it  is  the  sophomore's. 
But  there  is  yet  another  kind  that  is  dear,  dearly 
bought," — and  here  his  voice  trembled,  —  "it  is 
the  cynicism  of  the  mature  man." 
IRENE  (speaking  from  the  depth  of  her  experience). 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

The  old  story.  When  a  man  tries  to  be  interesting 

to  women,  he  abuses  them.  At  times  this  method 

repels,  but  if  the  man  is  handsome,  it  fills  us  with 

the  burning  desire  to  teach  him  better. 

EVA.  Have  you  made  that  observation,  too?  There 

is  nothing  more  alluring  than  to  teach  a  man  or 

to  save  him. 

IRENE.  Because  it  flatters  us — and  him.  And  yet 

no  one  has  ever  saved  another  anything  better 

than,  at  most — his  life;  or  taught  him  more  than 

the  multiplication  table  and  the  alphabet.  But  I 

interrupt  you. 

EVA.  And  so  I  wrote  to  him. 

IRENE.  Wrote  to  him? 

EVA.  It  was  not  exactly  necessary,  but  I  felt  that 

I  owed  him  a  certain  reparation.  And  then  he  came 

to  one  of  my  At  Homes. 

IRENE.  How  did  he  behave? 

EVA.  He  remained  only  a  few  minutes.  But  there 

was  a  glimmer  in  his  eyes,  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  even 

when  he  said  things  that,  coming  from  another, 

would  have  seemed  commonplace.  He  is  a  man  of 

precious  words. 

IRENE.  And  did  you  give  him  to  understand  that 

you  cared  for  him? 

EVA.  Not  yet.  I  expected  him  to  take  the  initial 

step. 

IRENE.  And  did  he  not? 

EVE.  No,  not  directly.  He  always  made  it  appear 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

as  if  he,  not  I,  were  the  object  of  desire. 
IRENE.  And  so  he  was. 

EVA.  Perhaps.  But  that  smile  of  his,  that  look,  that 
sigh,  were  not  all  these  declarations  of  love, — traps, 
it  may  be.  He  never  gave  himself  fully.  His  words 
were  few  and  equivocal. 
IRENE.  A  kind  of  masculine  Sphinx? 
EVA.  That  hits  it.  But  I  doubt  whether  his  riddle 
is  a  bonafide  one,  whether  it  admits  of  a  solution. 
To  try  earnestly  to  solve  it  may  be  to  rack  one's 
brain  to  no  purpose. 

IRENE.  Perhaps  he  has  himself  forgotten  the  solu 
tion  . .  . 

EVA.  Who  can  tell  ?  And  then  came  that  letter . . . 
IRENE.  What  letter? 

EVA  (taking  from  her  desk  a  number  of  pale  blue  let 
ter  s>  one  of  which  she  hands  IRENE).  Here,  read! 
IRENE  (raising  the  letter  to  her  face].  H'm,  perfumed ! 
(Examining  the  paper  critically^]  A  strange  handwrit 
ing;  almost  too  dainty  for  a  man  .  .  .  (Looking  up.) 
But  what  is  the  matter  with  you;  was  the  charm  so 
profound? 

EVA.  It  is  nothing.  Only  memories  that  intoxicate 
my  brain.  A  certain  animal  magnetism  that  flowed 
from  him  and  that  adheres  to  the  very  paper.  But 
I  have  done  with  that.  I  shall  return  to  my  husband. 
IRENE.  For  how  long? 
EVA  (hurt).  Fie!  But  read  it,  I  beg  of  you. 
IRENE  (still  looking  at  the  letter].  No  signature,  no 
date,  strange  .  . . 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

EVA  (bending  over  her).  But  read,  read! 
IRENE  (reading  aloud).  "  Upon  a  golden  throne  sate 
"  a  gleaming  idol . . .  And  it  had  a  soul,  but  all  those 
"  who  came  thither  knew  it  not .  .  .  And  they  were 
"  not  to  know  it  ...  For  it  was  the  awful  punish- 
"  ment  of  the  silent  idol  that  it  had  a  soul  and  might 
"  not  reveal  it,  if  it  would  not  endure  the  agonies 
"  of  the  lost .  .  .  And  once  in  seven  years  the  most 
"  powerful  of  the  idols,  to  whom  belongs  all  might 
"in  Heaven  and  upon  Earth,  sent  its  messenger 
"  and  tempter  to  break  the  iron  fetters  of  that  quiv- 
"  ering  soul .  .  .  and  show  it ...  soaring  high  above 
"  all  waters, the  Saviour  from  afar . .  .  Then  Heaven 
"  and  Hell  lamented  its  immeasurable  sorrow, 
"  which  neither  could  assuage  .  .  .  since  it  was  too 
"deep  for  the  light  and  for  the  darkness"  .  .  . 
(She  lays  the  letter  aside.)  A  confession?  But  do  you 
realize  that  the  man  who  wrote  it  is  an  artist? 
EVA.  In  fragments,  perhaps.  He  has  all  qualities 
of  the  lover  and  the  poet,  and  is  neither. 
IRENE.  Only  a  fragment  himself,  then? 
EVA.  I  sometimes  thought,  you  know,  that  God 
intended  to  make  a  great  artist  of  him,  and  being 
disturbed  in  His  creative  act,  made — a  charlatan  . . . 
IRENE.  You  are  hard  on  him.  You  show  that  your 
love  still  suffers  from  the  convulsions  of  death. 
When  love  is  buried,  we  grow  more  merciful.  And 
did  he  write  more  letters  in  this  style? 
EVA.  No.  But  once  when  we  were  together  and  I 
asked  him  to  solve  me  his  riddle,  he  smiled  mys 
teriously  and  said:  "Dear  lady,  you  must  under- 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

stand  that  I  am  a  great  work  of  art.  Invisible  springs 
set  me  in  motion,  and  all  about  me  must  be  har 
mony,  complete  harmony.  In  the  melody  of  love 
the  slightest  discord  is  fatal."  And,  oh,  how  his  lips 
shone;  and  how  a  strange  heavy  atmosphere  seemed 
to  float  about  him  as  at  high  mass  in  some  great 
cathedral  .  .  . 
IRENE.  What  a  poseur! 

EVA.  It  is  easy  for  you  to  talk.  You  do  not  know 
him.  ('Takes  a  photograph  from  her  desk.)  Look,  here 
he  is. 

IRENE  (scrutinizing  the  piflure  attentively).  Weak, 
and  yet  brutal.  These  melancholy  eyes — brown, 
I  suppose? 
EVA  (nods). 

IRENE  (continuing).  The  brutality  lies  in  the  lower 
part  of  his  face.  It  might  be  the  effigy  of  a  Roman 
emperor,  cruel  and  self-conscious  to  the  verge  of 
madness  .  .  . 

EVA.  Do  you  think  so  too?  How  very  remarkable! 
He  said  almost  the  same  thing.  It  was  one  night 
after  the  theatre.  It  had  rained,  and  the  street-lights 
were  reflected  on  the  wet,  shimmering  pavement. 
We  walked  a  short  distance.  His  arm  rested  heavily 
upon  mine.  He  was  inexpressibly  beautiful,  and 
golden  words  flowed  from  his  lips.  And  then  it  was 
that  for  once  he  seemed  to  reveal  himself  entirely. 
...He  gathered  his  coat  about  him  as  though  it  were 
the  royal  purple  .  .  .  He  seemed  like  a  phantom 
from  perished  ages  . . .  And  then  with  dreamy,  bell- 


10 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

like  voice,  he  gave  me  the  key  to  the  riddle  of  his 
life.  "Dear  child,"  he  said,  "I  am  born  out  of  my 
due  time — two  thousand  years  too  late  ...  I  should 
have  been  an  emperor  in  Rome  .  .  .  Yet  no  ...  not 
even  that .  .  .  For  the  Caesars  were  dependent  on 
popular  favour  ...  In  a  remoter  antiquity  I  should 
have  been  born,  then,  when  the  purple  conferred 
the  privilege  of  splendid  madness  ...  I  should  have 
wielded  the  sceptre  of  an  Asiatic  monarch,  of  that 
king  of  the  Persians  who  lashed  the  sea  with  chains 
.  .  .  and  I  am"  —  Here  his  voice  sank,  and  the  sen 
tence  remained  unfinished.  And  so  great  was  the 
man's  fascination  that  I  lost  sight  of  the  grotesque- 
ness  of  his  assumption  and  should  have  liked  to 
kneel  at  his  feet  under  the  very  arc-lights  of  New 
York!  .  .  .  That  was  the  climacteric  moment  of  our 
love.  And  then  (she  shudders] — banality. 
IRENE.  You  are  too  exacting,  my  dear.  Even  Caesar, 
were  he  alive  to-day,  would  have  his  boots  blacked; 
even  Isaiah  would  trim  his  beard.  And  in  his  love, 
was  he  imperial  there  too? 

EVA  (blushing  slightly).  The  strange  thing  was  that 
after  he  had  expended  all  his  arts  to  win  me,  he  was 
unpassionate — almost  cold. 

IRENE.  That  is  strange  indeed  . . .  But  I  must  make 
the  acquaintance  of  this  marvel. 
EVA.  Take  care! 

IRENE.  Pah!  After  your  confession!  (To  herself.)  I 
wonder  if  she  really  understands  him? 

(The  bell  rings.) 

(A  maid  comes  in  and  whispers  to  EVA.) 

ii 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

EVA  (softly).  It  is  he. 

(She  sinks  upon  a  chair  and  takes  up  her  cigarette 
again.) 
IRENE  (steps  before  the  mirror,  patting  her  hair). 

(Without,  soft  steps  are  heard  like  those  of  a  great, 

sleek  cat.) 


(CURTAIN) 


12 


II 

(On  board  a  small  Yacht.  IRENE  and  CLARENCE.  'The 
rays  of  the  sun  cast  silver  crosses  into  the  green  water. 
'There  is  a  yearning  as  of  summer  in  the  air.) 

(CLARENCE  would  attraff  attention  even  in  a  crowded 
thoroughfare  by  virtue  of  his  beautiful  eyes,  a  fatt  of 
which  he  is  quite  conscious.  His  gestures  are  carefully 
studied.  He  inclines  to  stoutness.  His  dark  hair,  combed 
back  from  his  forehead,  is  beginning  to  show  traces  of 
gray.) 

(IRENE  leans  against  the  railing,  holding  a  painted 
parasol  with  which  she  tries  to  shield  CLARENCE  ana* 
herself  from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  which,  however,  are 
not  penetrating  enough  to  make  the  shade  necessary?) 

IRENE.  And  do  you  call  that  love? 
CLARENCE.  Grosser  things  have  been  called  so. 
IRENE.  And  what  would  you  call  it? 
CLARENCE.  Vulgar  sensuality. 
IRENE.  Even  "the  love  that  moves  the  sun  and  all 
the  stars"? 

CLARENCE  (smiling).  Ah,  Oscar  Wilde?  Yes,  even 
that. 

IRENE.  And  this  subtle  attraction  between  you  and 
me? 

CLARENCE.  I  feel  that  even  it  would  come  under 
the  definition  of  Montaigne  to  the  effect  that 
love — 

IRENE.  I  know.  But  why  that  adjective?  Why 
should  the  play  of  the  senses  be  called  vulgar? 

13 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

CLARENCE  (with  subtlety).  Because  both  never  feel 
the  same. 

IRENE.  Is  that  not  too  harsh  a  judgement? 
CLARENCE.  Be  honest. 

IRENE.  Even  if  I  am  honest.  We  women —  But 
something  twitches  about  your  lips.  (After  a  mo 
ment's  consideration,  slowly.)  I  fear  that  you  are  a 
hopeless  cynic. 

CLARENCE  (wearily,  letting  his  beautiful  eyes  rest 
upon  her  and  laying  his  hand  lightly  on  her  shoulder]. 
My  dear  lady,  you  make  a  grave  mistake.  I  am  not 
(his  voice  begins  to  tremble)  a  cynic  in  the  ordinary 
acceptation  of  that  word. 

IRENE  (looking  at  him  full  of  anticipation).  You  are 
nothing  in  the  common  acceptation. 
CLARENCE  (receiving  the  compliment  with  a  graceful 
inclination  of  his  head).  Do  you  see,  there  are  two 
kinds  of  cynicism  — 
IRENE  (looks  at  him  sharply). 

CLARENCE.  Two  kinds,  I  say.  One  is  cheap — it  is 
that  of  the  sophomore,  but  there  is  another  kind, 
that  is  dear,  (his  voice  trembles)  dearly  bought,  and 
that  (with  the  air  of  a  tragic  heroine)  is  the  cyni 
cism  of  the  mature  man. 

IRENE  (to  herself).  The  identical  words.  That  is 
going  far!  (An  idea  takes  hold  of  her;  then,  as  if 
carried  away.)  Oh,  I  believe  that  you  have  suffered 
deeply. 

CLARENCE  (is  silent  and  looks  at  the  sky). 
IRENE  (continuing).  And  the  shadow  of  that  suffer- 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

ing  floats  before  you  as  the  veil  in  the  temple  be 
fore  the  Holy  of  Holies. 

CLARENCE  (is  flatter ed>  smiles,  and  lets  his  hand  rest 
somewhat  more  heavily  upon  her  shoulder]. 
IRENE.  And  that  shadow  must  hide  a  mystery 
deeper  than  love  .  .  . 

CLARENCE  (looks  at  her  in  some  astonishment.  'Then 
to  himself].  SHE  KNOWS. 

IRENE.  And  in  all  your  wanderings  through  life 
you  have  never  (consciously  seductive) — never  found 
the  woman  to  whose  eyes  you  could  lift  the  veil  ? 
CLARENCE  (calmly  to  himself}.  SHE  DOES  NOT  KNOW. 
(He  encircles  her  closer.  The  proximity  of  the  Man- 
Animal  begins  to  stir  her  blood.) 
CLARENCE.  There  are  things  incommunicable  which 
the  strong  must  bear  alone. 

IRENE.  Oh,  I  know  them  too.  In  long  nights  they 
stand  at  one's  bedside  like  souls  in  travail  to  be 
born.  I  too  — 

CLARENCE.  Who  knows  whether  it  would  be  a 
blessing  were  they  to  gain  form  and  life?  .  .  . 
IRENE.  Does  not  all  nature  strive  after  expression 
in  flesh  or  sound? 

CLARENCE.  And  what  if  the  forms  assumed  by  our 
secrets  be  nightmares  and  fearsome  monstrosities? 
IRENE.  Better  a  hideous  phantom  of  stone  than  one 
that  hounds  down  thought  in  the  innermost  con 
volutions  of  the  brain  .  .  . 

CLARENCE.  And  so  you  would  know  the  secret  of 
my  life;  my  secret  .  .  . 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

(She  looks  deep  into  the  elfin  beauty  of  his  eyes.  The 
pressure  of  his  arm  upon  her  shoulder  is  relaxed.  He 
seems  to  throw  his  whole  nervous  energy  into  his 
voice,  whose  silver  sound  has  a  weird  resonance  like 
that  of  a  great  bell  tolled  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.) 
CLARENCE.  I  will  relate  to  you  a  parable.  If  you 
understand  it,  it  is  well;  if  you  do  not  understand 
it,  (caressing  each  syllable)  it  is  better.  (With  solem 
nity.)  Upon  a  golden  throne — 

(She  starts.) 

CLARENCE.  Upon  a  golden  throne  sate  a  gleaming 
idol  .  .  .  And  it  had  a  soul  .  .  .  But  all  who  came 
thither  knew  it  not .  .  .  And  they  were  not  to  know 
it ...  For  it  was  the  awful  punishment  of  this  silent 
idol  that  it  had  a  soul  and  might  not  reveal  it ... 
if  it  would  not  endure  the  agonies  of  the  lost  .  .  . 
IRENE  (is  carried  away  in  spite  of  herself  by  a  sense 
of  wonder  and  by  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  his  elo 
cution). 

CLARENCE  (as  if  with  a  personal  application). . .  And 
once  in  seven  years  the  most  powerful  of  the  idols 
to  whom  belongs  all  might  in  Heaven  and  upon 
Earth  sent  its  messenger  and  temper  to  break  the 
iron  fetters  of  that  quivering  soul .  .  .  and  show  it 
.  .  .  soaring  high  above  all  waters,  the  Saviour  from 
afar  .  .  .  Then  Heaven  and  Hell  lamented  its  im 
measurable  sorrow  which  neither  could  assuage  .  .  . 
since  it  was  too  deep  for  the  light  and  for  the 
darkness  .  .  . 

(She  recognizes  perfectly  the  absurdity  of  the  situa- 
tion,  but  his  voice  intoxicates  her  like  new  wine. 
16 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

The  Woman- Animal  awakens ,  and  she  yields  with 
conscious  abandon  to  the  magic  of  the  moment?) 
CLARENCE.  You  are  astonished  and  you — under 
stand. 

IRENE  (with  a  shade  of  irony).  You  are  a  great 
mystery. 

CLARENCE  {failing  despite  his  subtlety  to  note  her  deli 
cate  raillery].  You  are  mistaken — a  work  of  art. 
IRENE  (to  herself).  This  is  too  much.  (His  remark 
has  destroyed  something  of  the  sensuous  charm^  and  it 
is  rather  curiosity  than  any  other  feeling  that  prompts 
her  to  inquire  further?]  An  artist  rather. 
CLARENCE.  No.  A  great  work  of  art.  Mysterious 
springs  set  me  in  motion,  contrivances  so  delicate 
that  even  the  exquisite  scales  in  the  treasure  houses 
of  gre'at  nations  could  not  weigh  them.  All  about  me 
must  be  harmony,  (now  almost  intoning  his  words) 
complete  harmony.  In  the  melody  of  love  the  faint 
est  discord  is  fatal  .  .  . 

(He  comes  nearer  and  again  places  his  arm  about  her. 
Something  like  a  magnetic  fluid  seems  to  emanate 
from  him.  She  almost  hears  the  throbbing  of  his 
pulses  and  fights  with  different  emotions  of  which 
finally  curiosity  still  gets  the  upper  hand.) 
CLARENCE  (significantly).  You  understand  me. 
IRENE  (falling  unconsciously  into  the  same  dramatic 
tone).  I  understand  you. 

CLARENCE.  I  knew  it ...  You  would  understand  me 
even  without  words. 

IRENE  (to  herself).  I  wonder  what  he  is  driving 
at.  (Aloud.)  Language  is  crudely  inadequate. 

17 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

CLARENCE.  When  two  souls  are  in  complete  har 
mony  one  always  knows  what  the  other  feels. 
IRENE.  I  have  never  known  so  happy  an  under 
standing. 

CLARENCE  (as  if  reviving  memories  from  an  unspeak 
able  distance  of  time].  I  had  a  friend  once  .  .  .  And 
he  loved  me  ...  And  often  we  walked  the  long 
paths,  speaking  no  word  .  .  .  Those  were  the  even 
ings  on  which  our  conversations  were  most  satis 
fying  .  .  .  And  on  a  certain  night  it  came  to  pass 
that  I  accompanied  him  from  Fourteenth  Street  to 
his  dwelling  .  .  .  Silently  we  pursued  our  way,  each 
busy  with  his  thoughts  .  .  .  But  at  Eighty-ninth 
Street  when  we  bade  farewell  to  each  other  he 
opened  his  lips  and  there  was  sorrow  in  his  voice  . . . 
"Clarence,"  he  said,  "at  the  corner  of  Fifty-ninth 
Street  you  were  in  the  wrong"  .  .  . 
IRENE  (to  herself).  That  at  least  he  did  not  tell  her. 
(Aloud.]  How  you  contrive  to  find  the  right  ex 
pression  for  everything — so  delicate  at  once  and 
profound.  You  should  have  been  a  poet  or  a — 
CLARENCE  (straightening  himself  like  a  beautiful  wild 
animal  about  to  display  all  its  charms  before  its  mate. 
If  he  were  a  cat  he  would  emit  sparks  at  this  moment. 
Then  with  a  deep,  melodious,  dreamy  voice).  No,  that 
is  not  my  vocation.  I  have  been  born  out  of  my  due 
time  ...  I  should  have  been  born  two  thousand 
years  ago  .  . v.  I  should  have  been  an  emperor  in 
Rome  .  .  .  No — 

IRENE  (whose  desire  to  show  that  she  sees  through  him 
overcomes  every  other  feeling).  I  know.  You  should 
18 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 

have  been  a  Persian  king,  a  Darius  who  in  his 
splendid  madness  had  the  ocean  lashed. 
CLARENCE  (taken  aback  for  a  moment;  then  with  im 
movable  calm).  Why  must  women  always  misquote? 
Xerxes  was  the  man's  name. 
IRENE.  I  have  heard  every  remark  that  you  made 
before. 

CLARENCE.  That  is  impossible,  for  one  was  new. 
IRENE.  And  is  it  thus  that  you  seek  to  impress 
me? 

CLARENCE  (coming  very  near  and  taking  her  hands  in 
his).  Certainly.  And  that  I  should  try  to  do  so 
proves  how  much  store  I  set  by  you  .  .  . 
IRENE.  If  you  are  a  master  of  language,  why  do 
you  not  at  least  clothe  your  thought  in  new  forms? 
CLARENCE.  It  is  because  I  am  a  master  of  language 
that  I  refrain  from  doing  so.  If  I  have  found  per- 
fe6t  expression  for  anything,  should  I  not  be  the 
merest  tyro  to  change  one  jot  or  tittle? 
IRENE.  But  all  that  smacks  of  the  merest  posing! 
CLARENCE.  Pose !  Pose !  What  higher  compliment 
can  I  pay  you  than  to  appear  before  you  in  my 
fairest  raiment? 

IRENE  (whose  power  and  wish  to  resist  dwindle 
equally].  And  do  you  play  this  trick  with  all  wo 
men? 

CLARENCE.  With  all  whom  I  love  .  . .  And  (embra 
cing  her  with  both  arms]  is  my  method  not  justi 
fied  by  its  success?  Have  I  not  won  my  game? 
(His  lips  touch  hers  and  she  suffers  herself  to  be 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE 


kissed.  His  head  sinks  upon  her  bosom.  The  air  is 
heavy,  athrill  with  summer,  drenched  with  fra 
grance.  There  is  triumph  in  her  eyes,  weariness  in 
his.) 


(CURTAIN) 


II 

THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 


CHARACTERS 

ALBERT  (between  thirty  and  thirty-four) 
MARION  (about  thirty) 
AN  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON 
SEVERAL  PERSONS  OF  No  IMPORTANCE 


{A  small  Room,  separated  from  the  main  drawing- 
room  by  Chinese  hangings.  In  the  former  are  MARION, 
ALBERT,  and  THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON;  in  the 
latter  PERSONS  OF  No  IMPORTANCE.) 

(MARION  is  a  beauty  of  the  brunette  type,  who  has 
read  much  and  lived  little.  Something  adheres  to 
her  of  the  misunderstood  woman,  who  since  the 
days  of  George  Sand  has  invaded  fiction.  Withal 
she  is  fashionably  dressed  and  wears  a  modern 
coiffure.  A  Parisian  gown  of  cream-coloured  lace 
serves  rather  to  suggest  than  to  reveal  her  charms. 
She  plays  with  two  red  roses  whose  petals  she 
plucks  out,  one  by  one,  as  the  scene  progresses.) 

(ALBERT  half  approaches  the  Aesthete,  half  the 
Blond  Beast  of  Nietzsche.  He  is  dressed  with  the 
utmost  care;  his  movements  are  nervous ,  his  voice, 
except  when  under  the  stress  of  emotion,  deliberately 
cold.) 

(It  is  unnecessary  to  characterize  THE  OLD- 
FASHIONED  PERSON.) 

MARION  (says  nothing  and  sighs). 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED   PERSON   (sighs  and 
says  nothing], 

ALBERT  (approaching  and  bowing  slightly).  You  have 
been  speaking  of — 
MARION.  Love,  of  course. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (earnestly).  We  were 
discussing  marriage  and  fidelity. 

23 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &c. 

ALBERT  (smiles). 

MARION  (half  reproachfully,  half  coquettishly).  You 
smile  .  .  .  ? 

ALBERT.  What  else  can  one  do? 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.  I  hardly  followyou. 
ALBERT  (paying  no  attention  to  him).  It  seems  to  me 
almost  naive  if  any  one  nowadays  speaks  of  love 
and  fidelity,  or  good  and  evil,  as  though  these  were 
unalterable  conceptions;  things  measurable  by  a 
fixed  criterion. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.  The  conceptions 
are  changeless  enough,  not  perhaps  in  philosophy 
since  Nietzsche  has  turned  the  modern  world 
topsy-turvy;  practically  they  are — without  doubt. 
ALBERT  (condescendingly).  And  how  would  you  per 
sonally  define — fidelity,  for  instance? 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (with  conviction). 
The  definition  of  the  Civil  Code  suffices  for  me. 
ALBERT  (with  a  pity  ing  shrug).  Then  you  can  hardly 
have  penetrated  very  deeply  into  the  secrets  of 
man's  soul.  I  am  not  unfaithful,  unless  I  feel  so; 
everything  is  subjective. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.  A  dangerous  doc 
trine —  this  (uttering  each  syllable  with  angry  em 
phasis)  subjectivity ! 

MARION.  Dangerous,  perhaps,  but  interesting.  Tell 
us  about  it. 

ALBERT.  I  can  be  faithful,  and  yet  faithless ;  I  can 
be  unfaithful  without  breaking  faith.  But  I  never 
vow  fidelity,  for  I  would  seem  to  myself  like  a 

24 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

lamp-vender  who  accompanies  the  sale  of  each  chim 
ney  with  a  guarantee  that  it  will  never  crack,  al 
though  he  knows  that  the  slightest  draught  suf 
fices  to  cause  this  catastrophe. 
MARION.  Do  you  then  hold  love  to  be  so  fleeting 
a  thing? 

ALBERT.  The  most  fleeting  of  all.  One  may  liken 
it  to  a  little  golden  bird  which  perches  now  upon 
this  twig,  now  upon  that,  as  its  whim,  or — if  you 
please — the  mood  of  each  moment  commands. 
MARION.  And  should  we  not  strive  to  prison  this 
little  bird  in  a  jewelled  cage? 
ALBERT  (speaking  to  her  alone  and  ignoring  THE 
OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  altogether].  Would  you 
care  to  put  fetters  on  such  a  little  creature  and  hurt 
it?  We  do  it,  to  be  sure.  And  then  one  of  two 
things  happens :  Either  it  flies  away,  or  else  its  little 
heart  breaks,  and  we  find  it  one  day  bruised  and 
dead.  Perhaps  it  would  have  remained  with  us 
had  we  not  fettered  it.  Constraint  is  the  one  thing 
it  cannot  endure.  For  love  is  a  survival  from  times 
primaeval,  and  therefore  it  has  the  impatience  and 
the  love  of  liberty  that  wild  things  have. 
MARION  (listens  with  a  light  slowly  kindling  in 
her  eyes  and  drops  one  rose-leaf  after  another  on  the 
floor}. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.  But  we  have  no 
thing  to  do  with  primaeval  things.  You  seem  to 
forget  that  evolution  has  carried  us  beyond  them. 
ALBERT.  It  has.  And  it  has  carried  us  beyond  love 
too, — most  of  us,  at  least. 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

MARION.  I  think  I  see  what  you  mean.  Others 
have  told  me  similar  things,  but  these  others  never 
succeeded  in  translating  their  theories  into  practice 
without  becoming  vulgar. 

ALBERT  (sympathetically].  That  I  believe,  for  the 
Art  of  Living  is  the  most  difficult  of  all  the  arts. 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.  Of  course,  if  you 
entertain  such  principles  you  acknowledge  no  au 
thority  ? 

ALBERT.  The  strong  man  recognizes  none. 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (triumphantly}.  An 
anarchist  of  the  drawing-room,  eh? 
ALBERT.  I,  like  life,  permit  myself  to  be  neither 
pigeonholed  nor  labelled. 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (looking  at  MARION 
out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye].  Upon  the  basis  of  such 
opinions  you  would  not  hesitate,  of  course,  to 
stretch  out  a  covetous  hand  after  your  neighbour's 
wife  ? 

ALBERT  (with  boundless  contempt].  I  take  what  I 
desire. 

MARION  (looks  at  him  full  of  admiration]. 
ALBERT  (continuing  calmly].  I  take  what  I  desire; 
what  I  do  not  desire  I  toss  away. 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (to  himself].  A  fine 
specimen,  I  must  say ! 

MARION.  That  must  make  your  love  all  the  more 
desirable  to  women  .  .  . 

ALBERT  (drawing  nearer  to  MARION).  I  drag  no 
chains  through  life.  Is  not  the  complete  enjoyment 

26 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

of  a  single  moment  better  than  a  lifetime  of  plea 
sure  in  homoeopathic  doses?  The  latter  makes  us 
shallower,  the  former  deeper,  and  —  I  seek  the 
depths. 

MARION.  Even  if  they  are  —  quicksands? 
ALBERT  (with  that  softness  of  intonation  which  the 
Man- Animal  assumes  at  more  intimate  moments).  Even 
then. 

MARION  (with  a  challenge  in  her  voice).  .  .  And 
you  always  dare  to  push  your  theories  to  the  last 
extreme? 

ALBERT  (suppressing  the  impulse  of  brutally  kissing 
her  lips  for  answer).  If  I  desired  to  drink  bitter 
cordials  out  of  small  green  glasses — they  would  be 
upon  my  table;  if  I  found  enjoyment  in  morphine, 
I  would  not  hesitate  to  distil  it  into  my  veins.  And 
if  at  last  sophisticated  pleasures  tired  me,  I  would 
find  my  way  to  sailors'  taverns,  to  the  wild  orgies 
of  nameless  haunts  of  shame.  But  that  does  not 
appeal  to  me.  It  is  not  compatible  with  the  aesthe 
tic  temperament.  Finally,  if  I  were  to  find  plea 
sure  in  pain  itself,  I  would  not  stop  even  at  that, 
but  crucify  myself.  For  (stressing  each  syllable)  to 
permit  one's  self  to  be  crucified  by  others  is  in  bad 
taste  ...  I  tolerate  only  self-inflicted  wounds  .  .  . 
MARION  (gazes  into  his  eyes  as  if  to  find  there  some 
confirmation  of  his  words). 
ALBERT  (does  not  avoid  her  look). 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (when  he  sees  that 
MARION  smiles,  looks  at  both  in  utter  astonishment 
and  with  an  inward  shrug.  ^heny  with  a  longing 

27 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

glance  at  the  partition).  You  will  excuse  me? 
ALBERT  (sighing  with  relief).  Certainly. 
THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON  (mumbling  to  him 
self).  Too  much  undigested  Nietzsche!  Too  much 
undigested  Nietzsche! 

(Exit  THE  OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON.) 
ALBERT  (the  hangings  having   closed  behind  THE 
OLD-FASHIONED  PERSON,  continues  with  even  softer 
intonation).  Wounds  have  no  attraction  for  me — 
now. 

MARION  (boldly).  .  .  And  what  does  attract  you 
now? 

ALBERT  (still  bolder).  The  Sensuous, —  if  it  is  Beau 
tiful.  (Bending  over  her.)  You,  for  instance,  Marion. 
MARION  (shaking  the  rose-leaves  from  her  lap,falter- 
ingly).  No  man  has  ever  spoken  to  me  in  this  way. 
ALBERT.  And  are  you  angry  if  I  do  it? 
MARION.  Your  frankness  is  something  new  to  me; 
it  is  surprising  .  .  .  (Believing  her  self  still  mistress  of 
the  situation.)  Yes,  surprising,  and,  (tenderly)  shall  I 
say  pleasing? 

(I'he  light  of  the  lamp  falls  full  upon  her.  Its  rosy 

shimmer  enters  into  her  blood.  Upon  her  lap  lies  a 

single  rose-leaf?) 

ALBERT  (passionately).  How  wonderful  you  are, 
Marion!  ...  I  would  drink  your  beauty  in!  ... 
What  a  gleam  in  your  hair,  Marion!  .  .  .  The 
petals  of  the  rose  are  not  so  red  as  your  lips  .  .  . 
A  strange  magic  possesses  me  .  .  .  (Touching  her.) 
I  hear  a  melody  from  fairyland  .  .  .  The  mere  lust 

28 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

of  the  flesh  has  no  part  in  it  ...  I  would  kiss 
your  forehead,  Marion  .  .  .  your  cool,  white  fore 
head  .  .  . 

(He  withdraws  his  hand,  as  if  wishing  not  to  destroy 
the  ethereal  atmosphere  created  by  his  last  words.) 
MARION  (the  Woman-Animal  awakens  in  her).  This 
evening  a  great  happiness  has  dawned  for  me  .  .  . 
(Dreamily.)  All  my  life  have  I  sought  a  man,  and 
found  him  at  last. 
ALBERT  (strokes  her  hair  gently). 
MARION.  You  wear  the  uniform  of  society;  but 
you  do  not  permit  its  conventional  stiffness  to  fet 
ter  your  soul,  as  others  do. 

(Steps  are  heard.) 
ALBERT.  Some  one  is  coming. 
MARION  (softly).  Don't  be  annoyed.  No  one  comes 
here  except  my  friends,  and  among  these  people 
—  I  have  no  friends.  I  can  still  spare  a  few  minutes 
before  going  back  among  the  philistines.  Alas,  all 
my  life  long  I  have  known  only  philistines — ex 
cept  one,  (with  bravado)  and  he  ended  in  the  peni 
tentiary  .  .  . 

ALBERT    (with  even  greater  bravado).  That  may 
happen  to  any  gentleman  .  .  . 
MARION.  I  beg  your  pardon,  this  particular  one 
forged  checks. 

ALBERT.  That  is  different;  it  is  vulgar.  If  he  had 
slain  to  rob — there  is  a  fierce  beauty  in  that.  An 
cient  instincts  must  awaken,  (grasping  her  hand  al 
most  rudely)  instincts  that  have  slept  a  thousand 

29 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

years,  primaeval,  cruel,  irresistible. 
MARION  (shivering) — like  Love?  .  .  . 
ALBERT.  Stronger,  perhaps,  and  sweeter,  (almost 
shaking  her)  so  that  every  nerve  in  your  body 
quivers  .  .  . 

MARION  (caressing  the  hand  that  holds  her).  Ah, 
you  are   not  a  stranger.   I  have  read  of  you  in 
Nietzsche  and  Stirner,  but  I  did  not  know  that 
you  were  alive.  I  adore  you! 
ALBERT.  Come  with  me! 

MARION  (drawing  back).  That  is  impossible!  Con 
sider, —  society.  .  . 
ALBERT.  Then  come  to-night! 
MARION  (trembling).  How  could  I?  My  husband 
—   but   to-morrow  .  .  .  to-morrow    I    shall    be 
alone  .  .  . 

(The  Chinese  hangings  move,  and  a  noise  is  heard.) 
ALBERT.  To-morrow,  then. 

(He  presses  her  hand  so  violently  that  she  barely 

suppresses  a  cry.  Exit  ALBERT.) 
A  PERSON  OF  No  IMPORTANCE  (entering  and  ap 
proaching  MARION).  A  most  extraordinary  person, 
this  gentleman — 

MARION  (with  her  thoughts  far  away).  Yes,  most 
extraordinary  .  .  . 


(CURTAIN) 


30 


II 

(The  same  'Drawing-Room.  Eleven  o  clock  in  the 
morning?) 

(Marion  lost  in  dreams^  but  restless  with  anticipa 
tion.  She  wears  a  morning-gown  of  pale  rose-colour , 
which  serves  rather  to  reveal  than  to  suggest  her 
charms^  and  white  carnations  in  her  hair?) 

MARION  (holding  a  letter  in  which  she  reads  from 
time  to  tirne^  only  to  sink  in  dreams  anew).  "  .  .  . 
"Your  image  has  not  left  me  .  .  .  Late  at  night  in 
"a  cafe  I  write  to  you  .  .  .  The  waiters  are  tired 
"and  would  like  to  go  home  .  .  .  But  I,  I  tremble 
"for  the  morning  ...  I  would  press  the  red  seal 
"of  my  lips  upon  yours  .  .  .  Love  shall  offer  us 
"the  full  measure  of  his  ecstasies  .  .  .  We  shall 
"yield  wholly  with  all  our  being,  in  order  that 
"neither  subtle  thought  nor  final  disgust  make  bit- 
"ter  our  feast,  as  they  always  do  when  one  drinks 
"slowly"  .  .  . 

(A  ring  at  the  bell  is  heard?) 

(Footsteps.) 

(A  servant  brings  a  card  upon  a  silver  tray?) 
MARION  (controlling  herself  with  difficulty).  Ask 
the  gentleman  to  come  in. 

(She  walks  toward  the  mirror,  but  trembles  so  vio 
lently  that  she  has  to  support  herself  against  the  back 
of  a  chair.  Before  she  has  time  to  look  at  herself 

ALBERT  stands  upon  the  threshold.  He  hastens  to 

embrace  her,  but  stops  suddenly?) 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

MARION  (tenderly).  You  may  come  .  .  .  We  are  all 
alone  .  .  . 

ALBERT  (hesitating].  .  .  .  And  the  servant? 
MARION.  I  have  sent  him  away  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am  so 
happy  that  you  came  .  .  .  Your  exquisite  letter  was 
like  the  fragrance  of  red  flowers,  like  the  fragrance 
of  red  wine — that  intoxicates  .  .  .  (Looking  at  him 
expectantly,  and  as  he  makes  no  movement  to  approach, 
astonished,  dumbfounded.)  What  is  it? 
ALBERT.  Had  you  only  consented  yesterday  .  .  . 
You  have  shattered  one  of  the  fairest  dreams  of 
my  life  .  .  .  Not  that  I  reproach  you;  still  — 
MARION.  You  are  changed  since  yesterday. 
ALBERT  (impatiently).  I  always  change;  but  neither 
are  you  the  same  .  .  . 

MARION.  I  do  not  understand  you  .  .  .  only  this 
morning  your  letter  .  .  .  and  now — How  am  I  to 
reconcile  these  things? 

ALBERT.  If  you  desire  the  truth  . . .  but  I  know  that 
you  do  not — 

MARION.  Speak!  I  am  prepared  for  anything. 
ALBERT    (brutally).   You  have  lost  your  attrac 
tion  .  .  . 

MARION  (alternately  red  and  pale).  Oh,  if  any  other 
man  had  said  that  to  me!  .  .  .  But  I  am  no  child; 
I  am  not  to  be  played  with,  I  must  know  why  my 
charm  has  departed.  (Hesitating,  and  then  dropping 
all  pretence  at  delicacy.)  You  cannot — cannot  be 
weary  of  me  yet! 
ALBERT  (slightly  irritated).  I  am  as  sorry  as  you 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

are,  but  the  thing  is  impossible.  I  cannot  offer  you 
a  sufficient  measure  of  love. 

MARION.  What  has  come  over  you?  Are  you  play 
ing  a  game? 

ALBERT  (sadly].  You  see,  one  mood  supplants  an 
other  .  .  .  Who  can  solve  the  mystery  of  love? . . . 
(Drawing  on  one  glove.)  Good-bye !  .  .  . 
MARION  (imperatively).  Stay! 
ALBERT  (somewhat  more  interested).  Stay? 
MARION.  I  insist  upon  it.  (As  she  sees  him  twitch 
his  fingers  in  impatience.)  Oh,  I  am  not  trying  to 
keep  you.  Pride  alone  would  forbid  that  .  .  .  But 
you  have  poured  love  like  molten  lead  into  my 
veins,  you  have  put  my  soul  asleep,  fettered  me, 
— mey  who  was  wont  to  play  with  love,  only  play, 
cautiously,  as  beseems  a  married  woman  .  .  .  And 
therefore  I  have  a  right  to  demand  an  explana 
tion. 

ALBERT.  I  fear  that  if  I  told  you,  you  would  still 
misinterpret,  still  fall  short  of  wholly  understand 
ing  me.  It  seems  to  be  impossible  for  a  woman  to 
analyze  an  experience  disinterestedly. 
MARION  (making  an  effort  after  self-control).  Oh,  I 
can  be  quite  objective,  believe  me,  quite.  Your 
words  have  fallen  upon  my  passion  like  snow  on 
fire.  I  look  upon  the  whole  affair  (fighting  down 
her  tears)  as  a  problem.  You  are  interested  in  pro 
blems,  are  you  not?  .  .  . 
ALBERT.  Surely,  when  they  are  insoluble. 
MARION  (without  paying  attention  to  his  remark). 
And  what  is  the  solution  of  this  problem? 

33 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &e. 

ALBERT.  It  is  more  seemly  to  propound  problems 
than  to  solve  them.  To  me,  at  least,  Oedipus  was 
always  less  interesting  than  the  Sphinx  .  .  . 
MARION.  But  you  are  interested  in  self-analysis. 
ALBERT.  Ah,  yes.  I  find  in  it  the  same  voluptuous 
pleasure  that  coarser  natures  find  in  self-laceration. 
And  so  I  agree  to  remain — to  analyze. 
MARION  (coldly].  Tell  me,  then,  how  it  is  that  yes 
terday —  (she  speaks  with  difficulty]  that  yesterday 
.  .  .  you  were  interested  in  me? 
ALBERT.  It  is  hard  to  put  into  words, — very  hard. 
I  told  you  that  I  am  a  man  of  many  moods4,  a 
seeker  after  them.  I  yield  to  them  entirely,  be 
cause  I  know,  alas,  how  swiftly  they  escape  us  and 
how  all  our  phantoms  vanish  into  nothingness. 
You  must  have  felt  that  too.  Have  you  not  known 
some  golden  summer  morning  in  which  all  grasses 
were  fragrant  and  all  nature  impearled  with  dew, — 
a  morning  full  of  holiness  and  sabbath  peace, — and 
then  a  single  word  turned  the  smile  upon  heaven's 
countenance  into  a  grinning  gargoyle,  and  impen 
etrable  mists  sank  upon  the  darkening  valley  .  .  . 
And  so  it  is  with  love  .  .  . 

MARION.  And  wherein  did  the  charm  of  yesterday 
consist?  You  had  seen  me  before  without  feeling 
it,  and,  having  felt  it,  whither  has  it  gone? 
ALBERT  (thoughtfully}.  Words  are  so  inadequate. 
There  was  the  illumination  .  .  .  the  light  in  your 
hair  and  in  your  eyes  .  .  .  the  cream-coloured  lace 
.  .  .  and  between  your  slender  white  fingers,  like 
drops  of  blood,  the  petals  of  a  rose  .  .  . 

34 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

MARION.  They  tell  me  that  I  am  beautiful  .  .  . 
ALBERT.  You  are. 

MARION.  And  not  only  at  night,  in  the  shimmer 
of  a  red  lamp,  with  rose-leaves  like  drops  of  blood 
between  my  slender  fingers?  .  .  . 
ALBERT.  Not  then  alone.  In  fad:,  (he  looks  her  over 
carefully]  you  are  even  more  beautiful  by  day ;  the 
daylight  brings  out  your  complexion,  your  hair  .  .  . 
MARION  {feeling  that  she  has  gained  a  point).  But 
surely  you  did  not  fall  in  love  with  a  red  lamp  or 
my  cream-coloured  dress?  .  .  . 
ALBERT.  Yes  and  no.  It  is  not  any  of  these  things, 
it  is  the  atmosphere,  the  mood. 
MARION.  And  that  mood  is  flown  irrevocably? 
ALBERT  (oracularly).  I  have  heard  stories  of  the 
dead  who  arose  from  their  graves. 
MARION  (in  the  grip  of  an  idea).  And  if  dead  love 
re-arose  and  sat  beside  you  at  the  banquet,  would 
it  fill  you  with  delight  or  horror? 
ALBERT.  Most  men  fear  the  dead  if  they  return; 
I   would  gladly  look  into  the  eyes  of  re-arisen 
love. 

MARION.  What  if — ? 

ALBERT  (regretfully).  Ah,  but  it  cannot  be.  Give 
me  your  hand  and  let  us  part  in  peace,  as  the 
strong  should.  And  when  we  meet,  then  we  will 
smile  or  pass  each  other  with  silent  recognition, 
and  when  men  speak  of  love,  we  shall  listen  with 
the  consciousness  of  being  richer  by  a  new  experi 
ence. 

35 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  £sV. 

MARION.  I  am  not  sentimental  now,  but  my  in 
terest  is  alert.  I  will  propose  a  plan. 
ALBERT.  And  that  is  —  ? 
MARION.  An  experiment. 

ALBERT  (to  himself).  That's  a  new  element.  The 
little  woman  shows  promise.  Is  it  possible  .  .  .  ? 
Who  can  tell  .  .  .  ?  (Aloud.)  And  what  do  you  pro 
pose? 

MARION.  I  will  re-create  by  artificial  means  last 
night's  atmosphere — appear,  act,  as  I  did  then. 
ALBERT  (musingly).  I  see.  You  purpose  to  create 
a  complete  mood,  a  harmony  without  discord, 
sweet  as  the  last  dream  of  a  hashish-eater  which 
no  awakening  can  dispel. 

(He  stretches  out  his  hand  tenderly  to  stroke  her 
hair.) 
MARION  (warding  him  off).  Wait  till  I  return. 

(She  disappears  silently  from  the  room.) 
ALBERT  (restlessly  turns  the  pages  of  a  book). 

(After  a  little  while  a  servant  enters,  lowers  the 
shades,  and  lights  the  red  lamp  which  diffuses  its 
light  throughout  the  room.) 

(Another  pause.  'Then  steps  are  heard  which  become 
slower  as  they  approach  the  drawing-room.) 
MARION  (opening  the  door).  Don't  look  around! 
(She  slips  in  and  stands  for  a  moment  beside  the 
Chinese  hangings.  She  wears  the  same  costume  as 
on  the  previous  night  and  her  hair  is  similarly  ar 
ranged.  Her  hands  hold  two  red  roses.  She  hastens 
to  the  same  seat  on  which  she  sat  the  night  before, 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MOMENT 

rests  her  head  upon  one  hand,  holding  the  flowers 

in  the  other.} 

ALBERT  (looking  up,  is  struck  with  the  sight.  He 
stands  still  for  a  moment.  Then  runs  to  her  and  falls 
at  her  feet).  You  have  it.  Hold  it  fast — hold  it! 
It  is  the  same  charm — the  identical  mood! 
MARION  (beaming  with  happiness,  plays  with  his 
hair).  Ah,  I  knew  it.  We  shall  be  completely  happy, 
together  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Islands  of  the 
Blessed  .  .  .  O  Albert,  I  love  you,  you  are  strong ! 
ALBERT  (suddenly  drawing  back).  No,  it  is  impos 
sible.  The  mood  is  not  the  same.  It  is  like  a  bell 
that  is  cracked.  Why  had  you  not  more  dar 
ing  !  ...  Had  you  repulsed  me  coldly  .  .  .  cruelly 
...  at  the  moment  when  I  lay  at  your  feet  .  .  . 
everything  would  have  been  possible  ...  I  trem 
bled  after  it  ...  hoped  for  it!  ... 
MARION  (dropping  all  reserve).  I  thought  of  it ...  I 
disdained  it !  (Springing  up.}  Do  you  not  see  how 
madly  I  love  you? 

ALBERT  (quite  coldly,  but  with  a  touch  of  melancholy}. 
That  is  just  it.  There  is  love  in  your  eyes.  Last 
night  you  did  not  love  me  .  .  . 
MARION.  And  is  that  a  reason  why  you  treat  me 
like  a  wanton? 

ALBERT  (shrugging  his  shoulders).  The  moment  a 
woman  begins  to  love  me,  she  has  ceased  to  inter 
est  me. 

MARION  (pale  with  excitement).  What  insolence! 
ALBERT.  As  you  please. 

37 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

MARION.  You  are  brutal. 

ALBERT  (his  hand  on  the  door  now).  And  would 
you  love  me  if  I  were  different  ?  .  .  . 
(MARION'S  head  droops.) 

(CURTAIN) 


Ill 

FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 


"And  Love  that  caught  strange  fire  from  Deattis  own  eyes." 

SWINBURNE. 


CHARACTERS 

MILDRED  (forty) 

ALFRED  (between  eighteen  and  nineteen) 

GWENDOLEN  (eighteen) 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

(A  Room  tastefully  furnished  and  not  without  lux 
ury.  Niches  in  the  wall;  couches  with  silk  cushions; 
rich  draperies;  a  piano;  books;  a  table  laid  for  a  light 
repast;  a  clock;  a  mirror.  One  door  leads  direffly  to 
the  hall,  another  to  the  inner  chambers.) 

(MILDRED  is  dark-complexioned.  From  time  to  time 
a  flash  as  of  summer  lightning  passes  over  her  face. 
Even  at  a  distance  one  would  suspect  her  hair  of  be 
ing  scented  with  some  costly  perfume.  In  all  her  limbs 
there  is  a  certain  languor  as  of  an  early  September 
day.  She  is  the  Woman  of  Forty.) 

(GWENDOLEN  appears  a  little  older  than  her  years 
would  warrant.  She  is  fair.  The  instintts  of  the 
Mother- Animal,  almost  entirely  lacking  in  MILDRED, 
are  strongly  pronounced  in  her,  and  lend  warmth  of 
expression  to  her  gray  eyes.) 

(ALFRED  is  blond.  The  dreamy  expression  in  his  blue 
eyes  is  in  strange  contrast  to  the  fullness  of  his  lips.  In 
speaking  he  looks  older  than  he  is.  His  gestures  are  ner 
vous  and  unsubdued \  but  a  certain,  almost  girlish ,  grace 
saves  him  from  the  awkwardness  of  his  age.  Under  the 
stress  of  emotion  his  voice  breaks  into  a  boyish  treble?) 

(MILDRED  goes  up  to  the  small  table.  She  touches 
a  few  dishes  as  if  to  enhance  the  symmetry  of  the  ar 
rangement.  She  is  evidently  feverish  and  excited.  She 
consults  a  little  watch,  set  with  pearls,  and  compares  it 
with  the  clock.  She  goes  to  a  mirror  and  gently  applies 
a  pencil  to  her  eyebrows.  Then  she  sits  down  at  the 
piano,  strikes  a  few  bars,  and  breaks  off  with  a  sharp 
discord.)  4I 


M 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

(With  firm  steps  she  approaches  a  desk,  takes  from 
it  a  vial  the  contents  of  'which  she  empties  into  one  of 
the  wineglasses  on  the  table?) 

(She  hurries  to  the  piano  again.  The  hands  of  the 
clock  point  to  a  quarter  of  eleven.  Footsteps.  A  knock 
ing  within?) 

ILDRED  (throwing  a  cloth  over  the  table). 
Come  in. 

GWENDOLEN.  I  am  going  to  bed,  aunt;  is  there 

anything  else  you  want  me  to  do? 

MILDRED  (with  unwonted  tenderness).  No,  my  dear. 

I  thank  you. 

GWENDOLEN  (looking  at  her  with  some  astonishment). 

Are  you  not  well  ? 

MILDRED  (impatiently).  Quite,  my  dear,  quite. 

GWENDOLEN.  Good  night,  then. 

MILDRED.  Good  night. 

(GWENDOLEN  goes  out^  and  MILDRED  locks  the  door 
behind  her.) 

(After  a  brief  space  light  footsteps  are  heard  in  the 
hall.  A  key  is  turned  in  the  outer  door.  ALFRED  en 
ters^  and  the  light  falls  full  upon  him.  He  is  dressed 
as  if  for  dinner.  His  fair  hair  and  the  light  in 
his  eyes  contrast  sharply  with  his  dark  attire.  He 
throws  his  arm  about  her  neck?) 

MILDRED.  You  are  earlier  than  I  expefted. 

ALFRED.  Yes.  I  managed  to  get  off.  You  can  ima 
gine  how  I  enjoyed  all  the  chatter,  knowing  that 

you  waited  for  me  .  .  . 

MILDRED.  Who  was  there? 
42 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

ALFRED.  Girls — geese!  A  few  of  my  classmates. 
Only  two  people  of  any  interest,  Marion  and  Cla 
rence. 

'(MILDRED'S  eyes  flash.) 

ALFRED.  Do  you  know,  she  is  quite  pretty.  She 
wore  a  dress  of  cream  lace,  and  had  two  red  roses 
in  her  hand,  whose  petals  trickled  down  her  slender 
fingers  like  drops  of  blood  .  .  . 
MILDRED.  That  is  her  unvaried  appearance  since 
her  absurd  affair  with  Albert  .  .  . 
ALFRED.  And  Clarence — 

MILDRED.  Neither  of  your  interesting  people  is  to 
my  taste.  Above  all,  beware  of  him.  You  see  him 
far  too  often. 

ALFRED.  What  harm  can  that  do?  His  is  an  un 
usually  lucid  mind;  he  is  one  of  those  people  who 
understand — everything. 

MILDRED.  He  is  one  of  those  natures  who  have  a 
dangerous  passion  for  playing  with  other  people's 
souls.  You  must  guard  yourself  against  him. 
ALFRED.  He  is  a  man  of  wise  words  and  quick 
sympathy.  Think,  by  contrast,  of  my  college- 
mates!  How  they  weary  and  disgust  me  with  their 
salacious  jokes  and  confessions.  Then,  too,  all  their 
ideas  of  life  and  love  are  so  curiously  repellent  and 
so  different  from  what  I  feel.  They  would  consider 
such  a  love  as  ours  as  something  to  be  bragged  of, 
but  always  with  a  tacit  insinuation  of  its  immorality. 
And  yet  their  commerce  with  women  of  the  street 
seems  to  them  pardonable,  even  proper. 
MILDRED.  That  is  not  altogether  their  fault,  but 

43 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  tfr. 

Society's,  which  considers  love  outside  of  marriage 
for  a  woman  of  one's  own  class  a  prime  offence. 
The  average  materfamilias  is  piously  indignant  over 
the  sin  of  some  Paolo  and  Francesca,  but  closes 
both  eyes  to  her  son's  frequent  excursions  to  houses 
of  painted  vice.  Thus,  in  their  early  youth,  are 
they  robbed  of  the  power  of  loving  the  body 
purely. 

ALFRED.  They  are  not  all  so  fortunate  in  their 
teachers.  You  have  taught  me  to  see  with  other 
eyes.  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you !  To  think  that 
their  fate  might  have  been  mine ! 
MILDRED  (playing  with  his  hair).  My  dear,  you 
could  not  ever  have  been  one  of  them. 
ALFRED.  But  what  is  the  matter?  Your  hands  trem 
ble. 

MILDRED.  Nothing,  nothing.  Feverishness,  per 
haps  .  .  .  Do  you  not  care  to  eat  something? 
(She  throws  the  cloth  back  from  the  table  in  such 

a  way  that  the  wineglasses  in  one  corner  remain 

hidden.) 

ALFRED  (looking  at  the  table  with  child-like  delight). 
Just  what  I  love,  mushrooms  and  caviare! 
MILDRED.  Oh,  you  big  baby !  Will  you  have  a  cock 
tail? 

ALFRED.  Yes.  I  '11  have  one.  But  put  two  cherries 
into  it.  Then  I  can  imagine  them  to  be  two  lips 
reddened  with  sharp  kisses. 

(fhey  drink.) 
MILDRED.  Will  you  have  a  cigarette? 

44 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

ALFRED.  Will  you? 
MILDRED.  Not  to-night. 

ALFRED.  Then  I  won't  smoke  either.  Do  you 
know,  I  really  don't  care  particularly  for  smok 
ing.  I  do  it  now  and  then,  because  it  looks  grace 
ful  and  because  you  like  it. 

MILDRED.  Yes.  There  is  a  strange  charm  in  seeing 
you  hold  a  cigarette  between  your  passionate  boy 
ish  lips.  It  is  hard  to  tell  then  whether  its  fire  or 
your  mouth  burns  with  a  redder  flame  .  .  . 
ALFRED.  And  I,  I  love  to  see  you  smoke.  You 
are  the  only  woman  whom  it  suits.  It  gives  you  a 
more  demoniac  air.  Little  tips  of  flame  seem  to 
quiver  about  your  lips.  One  wonders  then  whether 
it  is  the  reflection  of  your  cigarette  or  your  soul 
that  dances  there  .  .  . 
MILDRED  (smiling).  Another  cocktail? 
ALFRED.  No,  I  thank  you.  One  is  enough  to  set 
my  blood  racing  in  choric  measures  through  the 
brain  .  .  . 
MILDRED.  Some  wine  then? 

(She  lifts  a  bottle  of  red  wine  which  almost  falls 

from  her  trembling  hand.) 

ALFRED.  There  is  something  wrong  with  you  to 
night — something  unusual  about  you. 
MILDRED.  A  passing  weakness. 

(MILDRED^/.?  the  cloth  entirely  away  and  Jills  the 

glasses.) 

ALFRED  (draining  his).  To  your  health ! 
MILDRED.  To  yours,  (falteringly)  and  to  the  future ! 

45 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

(She  tastes  the  contents  of  her  glass  carefully  and  then 
drinks  it  down.)  Do  you  know,  Alfred,  we  should 
never  have  met  ...  It  would  have  been  better  for 
you  and  for  me  ... 

ALFRED.  Better?  How  can  you  say  such  things! 
Did  you  not  bring  a  new  and  radiant  light  into  my 
life  when  the  great  sun  of  your  love  arose  for  me? 
I,  to  be  sure,  could  be  but  little  to  you,  beautiful 
and  courted  as  you  are;  I  had  nothing  to  give  you 
except  my  heart. 

MILDRED.  Yes,  dear,  but  listen.  I  am  your  first 
great  love;  you  are  my  last.  First  love  is  peren 
nially  beautiful.  It  wears  a  purple  raiment  and  a 
wreath  of  roses ;  it  remains  throughout  life  one's 
dearest  memory.  But  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
kisses  of  one's  last  passion,  there  is  blended  a  bit 
terness  in  the  conscious  knowledge  that  its  end  is 
always  near.  The  colour  of  its  robe  is  almost  stri 
dent  in  its  brilliance,  for  it  is  red  with  the  scarlet  of 
fever  and  the  crimson  of  one's  heart's  own  blood  . . . 
This  love,  too,  bears  a  wreath,  but  it  is  a  wreath  of 
thorns.  It  is  the  saddest  of  all  loves,  it  has  no  il 
lusions.  I  know  that  you  will  leave  me,  for  I  am 
old. 

ALFRED.  You  are,  and  will  be,  my  one  love. 
MILDRED.  Oh,  you  are  such  a  child !  1 1  is  your  youth, 
it  is  the  Eternal  Masculine  in  you,  that  will  drive 
you  away  from  me.  And  if  not  these,  then  the 
artist  will  come,  who  makes  of  the  hearts  of  those 
who  love  him  a  lyre  on  which  he  plays, — harmonies 
long  and  full,  or  mere  vers  de  societe;  and  when  he 

46 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

has  lured  from  the  instrument  all  songs  that  it 
could  give,  he  breaks  it  and  throws  it  away.  And 
yet  I  am  glad  that  I  have  given  you  a  voice.  It  is 
said  that  the  love  of  mature  women  is  dangerous 
to  young  men.  It  is  a  lie.  I  believe  that  the  society 
of  wearied  and  sophisticated  men,  who  poison  them 
with  their  cynicism  and  dazzle  them  with  their  wit, 
is  far  more  fatal.  I  feel  that  my  influence  has  been 
good. 

ALFRED.  You  gave  me — all. 
MILDRED.  And  yet,  I  made  a  mistake.  I  should 
have  flirted  with  you,  played  with  you  as  queens 
do  with  their  pages,  but  I  should  not  have  loved 
you ;  it  should  not  have  gone  so  deep.  I  love  you 
too  much  to  let  your  love  die  in  mere  friendship. 
Others  may  do  so,  I  cannot.  I  cannot  bear  the 
thought  of  losing  you.  Your  limbs  have  the  fra 
grance  of  tender  grasses  .  .  .  When  your  boy's 
head  rests  on  my  bosom  I  know  that  my  image 
entrances  you  entirely,  that  you  are  not  old  enough 
to  have  to  think,  when  in  my  arms,  of  some  per 
verse  wanton  who  stung  your  jaded  nerves  to  a  last 
pang  of  pleasure.  And  finally,  I  know  that  our  love 
has  been  of  deep  significance  to  your  life  and  to 
your  art,  not  a  liaison  that  passes  without  trace. 
But  pass  it  must.  That,  too,  is  sure,  and  a  great 
loneliness  will  devour  my  life. 
ALFRED  (almost  weeping).  But  I  will  not  leave  you, 
O  my  queen !  You  knew  how  to  receive  my  adora 
tion,  to  bear  yourself  like  a  queen,  even  as  you 
understand  all  that  seethes  and  yearns  and  wells  up 

47 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

in  me — all  that  clamours  after  spiritual  birth.  You 
unlocked  for  me  the  hidden  crystalline  fairy-castles 
of  Love,  you  showed  me  the  secret  gardens  in 
which  Dalliance  and  Beauty  walk  under  trees  with 
violet  blossoms  that  break  into  emerald  fruitage. 
You  gave  me  of  your  knowledge;  you  incited  me 
to  creation;  every  verse  of  my  poetry  is  an  aspect 
of  your  beauty,  every  poem  is  a  night  with  you. 
For  the  curve  of  your  breasts  is  smooth  and  firm 
like  a  perfect  marble  flower,  the  touch  of  your 
hand  gentler  than  the  beating  of  angel's  wings  .  .  . 
You  have  given  my  life  its  meaning,  which  I  have 
coined  into  golden  words. 

MILDRED.  But  after  me  others  will  come,  men  and 
women,  and  they,  too,  will  gain  an  influence  over 
you.  I  shall  live  to  see  how  you  come  to  me  less 
gladly  than  of  old,  with  an  excuse  here  and  an  ex 
cuse  there.  (She  shivers.)  It  were  better  to  make 
an  end  .  .  . 

ALFRED.  How  can  you  speak  so !  Why  break  one's 
heart  over  things  that  are  far  away  upon  the  knees 
of  the  gods,  hidden  in  gray  mists,  and  which  will, 
perhaps,  never  come  to  pass.  Why  do  you  torture 
our  souls  as  they  did  in  mediaeval  cloisters,  where 
they  scourged  the  neophyte  in  punishment  of  the 
sins  that  he  might  some  day  commit. 
MILDRED  (with  sudden  resolution).  And  those  old 
monks  were  wise.  I  knew  a  man  once  who  slew 
his  wife.  There  was  no  visible  motive  for  the  deed. 
I  sought  him  out  in  prison  and  spoke  to  him. 
"Was  she  unfaithful  to  you?"  I  asked.  "No,"  he 

48 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

replied,  "but  she  might  have  been."  He  met  death 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  for  he  knew  that  none  other 
had  possessed,  nor  ever  would  possess,  that  body 
which  he  loved  to  idolatry.  (She  speaks  with  a  strange 
exaltation,  that  almost  frightens  him.) 
ALFRED  (trying  to  calm  her).  Dearest,  fairest  in  all 
the  world!  But  my  love  cannot  pass. 
MILDRED.  Even  when  wrinkles  will  line  this  brow; 
when  these  breasts  are  no  longer  like  perfect  mar 
ble  flowers,  but  like  two  faded  blossoms;  when  my 
body,  where  your  lips  touch  it,  will  exhale  a  faint 
scent,  which  you  alone  will  notice, — a  scent  that 
foreshadows  the  odour  of  decay. 
ALFRED.  How  strangely  you  speak  to-day.  I  shall 
kiss  the  wrinkles  from  your  forehead;  I  shall  touch 
your  breasts,  so  that  they  break  into  new  bloom; 
I  shall  drink  your  breath  until  it  becomes  sweet 
as  wine  and  as  intoxicating  —  and  if  I  cannot  give 
you  my  youth,  I  will  grow  old  along  with  you. 
MILDRED  (with  peculiar  intonation).  And  if  death 
were  to  part  us? 

ALFRED.  Then  would  I  kiss  your  dead  hair,  water 
your  breast  with  my  tears,  and  lay  the  rose-leaves 
of  my  song  upon  your  pallid  eyelids.  Love  like 
mine  is  stronger  than  Death  .  .  . 
MILDRED.  Are  you  quite  sure  of  yourself? 
ALFRED.  I  would  pledge  my  very  soul. 
MILDRED.  It  is  well. 

ALFRED.   What  is  well?  And  why  this  austerity, 
this  strange  insistence? 

MILDRED  (with  clear,  impassioned  tone).  Fate  has  so 

49 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

willed  it,  that  you  will  be  put  to  the  test  sooner 

than  you  dream  .  .  . 

ALFRED  (frightened}.  How  is  that  possible?  I  do 

not  see.  There  is  something  terrible  in  your  eyes  . . . 

MILDRED.  Child,  look  at  me!  How  will  you  bear 

it?  (Pointing  to  the  glass}  The  wine — 

ALFRED  (springs  up  and  stares  wildly  into  her  eyes). 

MILDRED.  The  wine  which  you  have  drunk  was 

poisoned! 

ALFRED  (swaying  and  catching  hold  of  a  chair  to  avoid 

falling).  Why,  why  have  you  done  this?  (Grasping 

his  forehead.)  I  am  dizzy  already  ...  I  thought  the 

wine  had  a  bitter  taste  ...  Is  there  no  help? 

MILDRED  (with  regal  air).  It  is  too  late. 

(The  candles  throw  their  full  light  upon  her.  'There 

is  in  her  eyes  a  strange  illumination^  and  a  pallor 

steals  over  her  face} 

ALFRED  (whose  dramatic  instinft  awakes).  If  I  must 
die  then,  and  if  there  is  no  salvation,  my  beloved, 
—  none,  then  had  I  rather  receive  death  from  your 
hand  than  from  another's.  I  feel  a  quivering  in  all 
my  limbs.  I  hear  the  beating  of  strange  wings.  All 
your  gifts  are  good  gifts,  even — the  gift  of  death. 
(The  light  in  MILDRED'S  eyes  becomes  intenser. 

Her  pallor  interchanges  with  redness.  She  places 

her  hand  upon  his  head  and  her  slender  fingers  run 

through  his  hair} 

ALFRED.  Do  you  hear? — even  the  gift  of  death. 
MILDRED  (with  trembling  voice}.  And  do  you  know 
what  death  is,  child?  In  this  golden  hair  that  I 

5° 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

caress  to-day  a  slimy  something  will  creep — the 
worm.  These  child  eyes,  now  full  of  tears,  will  start 
from  their  hollows ;  from  your  slender  loins  will  the 
flesh  fall,  and  into  this  brain,  now  full  of  words 
like  jewels,  the  dust  of  the  earth  will  be  ground 
and  loathsome  things  that  lurk  in  darkness.  You 
will  be  in  a  land  that  knows  neither  love,  nor  song, 
nor  remembrance;  you  will  be  a  thing  of  horror, 
a  mass  of  corruption.  That — -(her  body  shakes)  that 
is  death. 

(ALFRED  has  become  gray  as  ashes.  A  convulsion 
as  in  strong  fever  runs  through  his  body.  His  head, 
which  she  has  been  covering  with  kisses,  sinks  upon 
her  lap.} 

ALFRED  (with  a  sob  in  his  voice).  If  I  die  now — 
you  must  lay  a  lily  on  my  grave  and  throw  in 
secret  three  roses  into  my  coffin  .  .  .  You  must 
take  all  my  books  and  all  my  manuscripts  .  .  . 
Mildred,  Mildred,  it  is  very  terrible  to  die  so 
young  .  .  .  especially  with  so  much  left  unsaid  and 
uncreated  .  .  .  What  an  artist  dies  in  me  .  .  .  Yes, 
this  is  what  you  shall  write  upon  my  grave:  QUALIS 
ARTIFEX  PEREO!  .  .  .  And  yet  of  this  I  may  boast. 
My  life  has  been  a  harmonious  whole.  Had  I 
grown  older,  it  may  be  that  discords  would  have 
crept  in.  Thus  far  my  life  has  been  as  a  poem ;  it 
has  been  like  faring  in  a  silver  gondola  over  seas 
incarnadined,  with  music  in  the  stroke  of  every 
oar  .  .  .  And  suddenly  the  storm-clouds  gather  .  .  . 
The  lightnings  flash  over  the  firmament  like  the 
glow  on  the  face  of  some  god  .  .  .  But  through  the 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

roar  of  the  tempest  the  melody  sounds  on;  the 
waves  lash  the^  silver  gondola  into  the  whirlpools 
.  .  .  Yet  in  destruction  still  rises  soft  music,  a  song 
to  you  .  .  .  And  that  is  death  —  death  which  you 
gave  me;  and  why  should  you  not?  .  .  .  you  gave 
me  life!  .  .  . 

(A ghastly  pallor  has  spread  over  MILDRED'S  fea 
tures.  The  light  in  her  eyes  has  died.  Her  hands 
clutch  convulsively  after  his.} 

ALFRED.  But  how  pale  you  are!  .  .  .  Mildred  .  .  .  ? 
Is  it  possible!  .  .  .  You,  too!  .  .  .  Ah,  a  great  joy 
rises  in  my  heart!  .  .  . 

MILDRED.  Come  here,  Alfred.  Come  near, — nearer. 
I  have  lied  to  you  .  .  .  Do  you  really  believe  that 
I  could  have  sacrificed  your  life?  Yet  I  did  right 
to  lie  to  you.  For  now  love,  seeing  the  greatness 
of  yours,  sweetens  the  thought  of  death. 
ALFRED.  What  have  you  done?  By  the  mercy  of 
God,  what  have  you  done? 

MILDRED  (with  weak  voice).  It  was  I  who  drank 
the  draught! 

ALFRED.  Christ!  What  shall  I,  can  I,  do?  Is  no  one 
in  the  house?  No  antidote  within  reach? 
MILDRED.  Let  be.  (She  looks  at  the  clock.)  The  poi 
son  has  done  its  work.  Take  the  footstool  and  sit  at 
my  feet.  So,  so.  I  am  perfectly  contented,  I  am  per 
fectly  happy.  Death  comes  to  me  not  as  to  a  flower 
that  dies  anew  with  the  fall  of  each  petal,  he  comes 
swiftly.  He  comes  in  halcyon  days  and  gives  me 
of  his  drowsy  vintage.  Do  you  see,  Alfred,  I  shall 
remain  to  you  a  beautiful  memory,  perhaps  the 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

most  beautiful  of  all?  I  shall  live  in  your  song  and 
in  your  heart.  But  my  fading  eye  will  guard  this 
vision  of  you  sitting  at  my  feet.  That  will  remain, 
if  there  is  memory  hereafter.  Dear  boy,  I  never 
let  you  know  how  much  I  loved  you,  how  my 
thoughts  were  with  you  day  and  night.  A  perver 
sion  men  may  call  it;  but  is  it  not  in  the  strangest 
gardens  of  love  that  the  fairest  flowers  blow?  I  am 
entirely  conscious  of  what  I  have  done.  I  know 
that  Death  stands  beside  me  now,  and  clutches  at 
my  heart  with  his  fingers.  It  throbs  still  like  a 
flickering  flame,  throbs  with  immeasurable  love.  To 
my  very  breast  Death  has  risen,  but  my  lips  still 
live  .  .  .  Do  not  tremble,  my  darling  .  .  .  Kiss  me, 
kiss  me!  ...  Oh,  how  my  lips  are  athirst!  .  .  . 
(ALFRED  covers  her  face  with  kisses.  She  winds 
her  arms  about  him.  Suddenly  they  relax.  A  white 
foam  rises  to  her  lips  and  a  convulsion  -pitilessly 
shakes  her  body  to  and  fro.  Then  there  is  silence.) 
(ALFRED  remains  for  a  few  moments  as  if  turned  to 
stone,  unable  to  comprehend  what  has  happened.  He 
touches  her  face  with  his  hand  and  the  foam  sticks  to 
his  fingers.  Then  he  breaks  out  into  violent  sobbing?) 
(At  this  moment  a  loud  knocking  at  the  inner  door 
is  heard.  He  opens  it  and  GWENDOLEN  stands  be 
fore  him.  Her  hair  falls  about  her  shoulders.  She 
is  clad  in  a  night-dress?) 

GWENDOLEN.  Merciful  God!  What  has  happened! 
You  here,  Alfred!  And  aunt! 
ALFRED.  Dead,  dead,  dead.  She  is  dead.  (Almost 
screaming?)  Poisoned!  She  poisoned  herself! 

53 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fefr. 

GWENDOLEN  (seeing  MILDRED).  God!  How  is  it 
possible!  Only  an  hour  ago  I  spoke  to  her.  (Shak 
ing  the  corpse.)  Aunt!  Aunt!  I  must  away — must 
call  a  dodtor! 

ALFRED.  Stay,  Gwendolen.  You  must  not  go.  Do 
you  not  understand  that  you  must  not  go  ...  She 
has  poisoned  herself .  .  . 

GWENDOLEN.  And  you?  Why  are  you  here?  How 
do  you  know? 
ALFRED.  Gwendolen!  .  .  . 
GWENDOLEN.  Can  it  be? 

ALFRED.  You  must  think  no  evil  of  her,  she  loved 
me  .  .  .  And  it  is  this  love  that  brought  about  her 
death. 

GWENDOLEN.  How  could  this  happen? 
ALFRED.  Come!  I  will  tell  you.  She  was  dear  and 
good.  And  how  I  loved  her!  You  must  not  con 
demn  her.  Listen. 

(GWENDOLEN  sinks  down  on  a  couch  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room.) 

ALFRED  (sitting  down  next  to  her).  She  came  like  a 
good  fairy  to  the  troubled  waters  of  my  youth.  She 
placed  her  finger  on  my  wounds.  She  understood 
what  I  said  and  what  I  left  unsaid.  She  under 
stood  all,  and  she  was  all  to  me.  She  filled  my  life 
and  my  song.  She  was  so  pure,  so  fair,  so  wise;  I 
could  reveal  to  her  my  most  secret  thoughts.  Her 
smile  forgave  everything.  And  then  came  Love. 
Like  a  great  flame  it  came  between  us  and  made 
our  life  splendid  with  immortal  bloom.  I  had  no 
warning  of  this;  I  came  here  happy,  and  she  has 
54 


FROM  DEATH'S  OWN  EYES 

killed  our  dream  that  it  might  never  die!  And  now 
she  lies  cold  and  dead, — dead! 
GWENDOLEN  (stroking  his  hair).  How  you  loved 
her! 

ALFRED.  Loved  her?  She  was  as  beautiful  as  a 
legend  of  long-dead  loves.  She  was  like  a  sun  over 
the  wastes  of  my  life.  And  she  was  beautiful,  per 
fectly,  and  I  loved  her  perfectly.  I  kissed  her 
adorable  body  as  though  it  were  the  Host  ...  I 
burned  my  soul  upon  her  lips — 

(His  hand,  entwining  her  neck  as  if  seeking  help, 

slips  down,  and  is  arrested  upon  her  half-bared 

breast?) 

GWENDOLEN  (her  whole  body  trembling).  Alfred! 
ALFRED.  Oh! 

('They  both  spring  up  and  dare  not  look  at  each 

other.) 

(At  that  moment  a  gentle  sound  is  heard.  It  is  the 

head  of  the  dead  woman  falling  sideways  against 

the  chair.) 


(CURTAIN) 


55 


IV 

A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 


CHARACTERS 

ALFRED  {forty-five) 
ADA  (twenty) 


(A  Library  furnished  with  massive  elegance,  The 
couches  and  chairs  are  covered  with  olive-coloured 
leather.  'The  walls  are  adorned  with  portraits  of  art 
ists  and  writers.  The  modernity  of  the  arrangement  is 
strongly  pronounced?) 

(ALFRED'S  appearance  has  dignity  and  poise.  His 
movements  are  calm  and  gracious.  In  his  features,  es 
pecially  when  he  smiles,  there  is  still  something  boy 
ish.  His  silken  hair,  slightly  curled  at  the  ends,  is  be 
ginning  to  turn  thin  here  and  there^  and  shows  traces 
of  gray.} 

(ADA.  Brown  hair,  dark  eyes;  slightly  anaemic. 
She  is  delicately  built.  There  is  a  nervous  flicker  in 
her  eyes,  and  her  hands,  as  if  in  search  of  something  to 
play  with,  flutter  continually  up  and  down.} 

(ALFRED  and  ADA  sit  side  by  side  upon  a  couch. 
They  hold  upon  their  knees  a  heavy  photograph  album , 
and  slowly  turn  its  leaves?) 

ALFRED.  To  turn  over  old  photographs  is 
like  walking  through  a  graveyard.  A  little 
cross  here,  one  there  .  .  . 

ADA.  But  the  originals  of  many  of  these  are  still 
alive. 

ALFRED.  What  self-deception !  They  are  all  dead. 
ADA  (looks  at  him  with  a  question  in  her  eyes]. 
ALFRED.  Or  as  good  as  dead.  It  is  a  curious  mis 
take  to  imagine  that  photographs,  when  months  or 
years  have  passed,  still  resemble  their  originals  .  . . 

59 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fefr. 

Not  even  after  the  lapse  of  days  ...  If  when  we 
part  we  express  the  hope  that  we  shall  see  each 
other  again — it  is  the  bitterest  of  irony.  For  we 
never  do. 

ADA.  I  fear  that  I  do  not  quite  take  your  mean 
ing. 

ALFRED.  Man  changes  his  personality  more  than 
once  in  life.  He  sloughs  it  as  a  snake  its  skin.  He 
changes  with  every  minute.  Only  we  do  not  recog 
nize  the  change  if  we  have  him  continually  before 
our  eyes.  When  people  see  each  other  again  after 
the  passage  of  years,  they  should  be  introduced 
anew,  as  though  they  were  strangers.  How  little 
that  is  understood !  But  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I 
have  not  the  least  desire  to  meet  with  old  friends 
or  old  loves  if  it  is  long  since  I  have  seen  them. 
Nothing  comes  of  it;  at  best  a  timid  attempt  to 
sustain  the  farce  that  we  are  still  the  same  and  still 
interested  in  one  another. 

ADA.  In  that  case  you  will  find  many  dead  here. 
ALFRED.  Yes,  I  have  been  away  long  and  have 
grown  old. 

ADA.  Old?  A  poet  old?  I  thought  you  dwelt  among 
the  hills  where  flows  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth. 
ALFRED.  You  know  me  only  from  my  poems. 
ADA.  And  is  it  possible  for  the  songs  to  remain 
young  and  the  singer  to  grow  old?   It  must  be 
terrible  to  be  older  than  one's  poems. 
ALFRED.  Not  so  terrible.  Each  year  brings  its  new 
songs  and  the  old  ones  are  buried.  They  lie  in  their 
coffins  like  the  corpses  of  little  children  .  .  . 
60 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

ADA.  What  a  horrible  idea !  And  has  the  past  no 
significance  to  you? 

ALFRED.  A  memory  here  and  there.  (Turning  over 
the  leaves.)  Aha,  there  is  Albert.  What  has  become 
of  him? 

ADA.  Do  you  not  know  that  he  entered  a  Trappist 
monastery  five  years  ago? 

ALFRED.  I  am  not  surprised.  From  aestheticism  to 
asceticism  there  is  but  one  step.  And  here  is  Irene. 
I  wonder  what  changes  time  has  wrought  in  her. 
Did  she,  too,  enter  a  convent? 
ADA.  No;  not  yet.  Mamma  visits  her  now  and 
then,  but  I  am  not  permitted  to  go  there. 
ALFRED.  And  why,  pray? 

ADA.  She  has  grown  very  corpulent;  lies  all  day 
on  the  sofa,  clad  in  flowing  robes,  reading  the 
Memoirs  of  Casanova  and  the  novels  of  the  Mar 
quis  de  Sade. 

ALFRED.  Which,  I  presume,  you  have  not  read? 
ADA.  And  why  should  I  not?  I  am  a  modern  wo 
man.  Have  I  not  read  your  poems,  too? 
ALFRED  (amused).  I  would   hardly  group   those 
books  together. 

ADA.  I  have  studied  you  thoroughly.  I  have  read 
you  until  I  know  you  by  heart. 
ALFRED  (with  a  touch  of  irony).  Have  you  indeed 
read  me? 

ADA.  You  see  I  possess  the  edition  de  luxe  of  your 
works. 
ALFRED  (smiles  politely). 

61 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

ADA.  Oh,  I  know  more  of  your  life  than  you 

think. 

ALFRED.  Indeed? 

ADA  (opens  the  album  at  a  place  which  she  has  kept 

with  her  finger  during  the  whole  conversation). 

ALFRED  (visibly  annoyed}.  You  never  knew  her. 

ADA.  No,  but  mamma  told  me  that  it  was  on  your 

account — 

ALFRED  (aside).  It  is  very  odd  that  women  forget 

their  own  love-affairs  more  quickly  than  those  of 

their  friends. 

(A  short  silence  ensues?) 

ALFRED.  And  so  you  have  read  my  poems,  and  no 
doubt  admire  me  very  much? 
ADA.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I  have  lived  myself 
into  your  works,  how  you  have  become  a  part 
of  me,  and  how  during  long  days  and  nights  I 
dreamed  in  what  manner  I  should  bear  myself  to 
ward  you  and  lay  my  admiration  at  your  feet.  And 
when  I  saw  you  at  last,  I  could  n't  say  a  thing. 
I  must  have  seemed  quite  silly. 
ALFRED.  Was  it  disappointment  that  bereft  you 
of  speech? 

ADA.  No,  it  was  something  very  different,  some 
thing  deep,  disturbing.  (With  a  sudden  tremor  in 
her  voice?)  I  realize  that  you  must  have  lived  many 
poems,  not  only  written  them  .  .  . 
ALFRED.  The  best  poems  are  those  that  one  writes, 
not  those  that  one  lives.  Life  always  leaves  a  bitter 
savour  in  the  mouth. 

6z 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

ADA  (with  growing  intensity}.  Always?  Surely  the 

poems  that  you  lived  were  beautiful? 

ALFRED  (gently  taking  her  hand).  Child,  child. 

ADA  (covers  his  hands  with  kisses). 

ALFRED.  Ada,  what  are  you  doing?  (He  tries  slowly 

to  disengage  his  hand.) 

ADA.  Oh,  you  do  not  know  how  much  I  love 

you!  I  can't  help  it!  The  love  of  you  beats  in  my 

temples,  throbs  in  my  blood !  (Sobbing,  and  again 

covering  his  hands  with  kisses.)  Will  you  repulse 

the  great  love  that  I  bring  you,  as  a  god  disdains 

too  humble  an  offering? 

ALFRED  (freeing  himself  from  her).  You  are  a  dear, 

good  child.  But  that  is  quite  impossible.  I  do  not 

refuse  the  offering  because  it  is  too  humble,  but 

because  it  is  too  costly;  and  because  it  is  not  the 

right  one.  It  is  the  poet  whom  you  admire,  not 

the  man. 

ADA.  No,  it  is  you  yourself  whom  I  love.  And 

my  love  did  not  awaken  until  I  saw  you,  until  I 

felt  the  compulsion  of  your  presence,  the  pressure 

of  your  hand. 

ALFRED.  Child,  child,  and  yet  again  I  say — child. 

When  one  has  passed  through  many  experiences  in 

the  course  of  life,  one  learns  to  differentiate,  to  pick 

and  choose,  above  all  to  resign.  The  love  of  any 

human  being  is  a  precious  gift,  the  greatest  of  all. 

And  even  into  a  poet's  hands  there  falls  not  every 

day  a  woman's  heart, — especially  when  —  (he  sadly 

touches  his  hair).  And  we  grow  more  selfish,  too, 

more  averse  to  change.  One  becomes  accustomed 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &c. 

to  loving  a  certain  person  and  hates  to  break  that 
custom,  establishing  no  more  relations  that  last  for 
ten  days  or  a  fortnight  and  wreck  one's  peace. 
ADA.  But  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you, — love  you ! 
ALFRED.  No  doubt;  but  suppose  that  some  hand 
some  young  fellow  with  black  locks,  or  golden  if 
you  please — (again  he  strokes  his  hair). 
ADA.  Never.  I  hate  young  men.  They  fill  me  with 
disgust.  Their  very  touch  makes  me  tremble  with 
repulsion.  I  know  they  never  have  but  one  thought 
— that  of  possession. 

ALFRED.  Suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  I 
marry  you;  furthermore  that  some  day  we  have  a 
child.  And  if  I  were  to  die  then,  what  would  be 
come  of  you?  For  I  shall  die  long  before  you. 
ADA.  I  am  not  very  strong  and  hardly  fit  to  per 
form  the  degrading  functions  of  the  Mother-Ani 
mal.  And  at  any  rate,  I  am  quite  sure  of  this,  that 
I  shall  not  survive  you.  I  shall  leave  the  world  with 
you.  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  have  often  dreamed 
of — I  have  never  told  it  to  any  one.  I  thought  of 
borrowing  a  boat,  of  rowing  out  upon  the  sea 
where  it  is  deepest,  and  then — 
ALFRED.  You  are  a  poor  helpless  little  thing.  One 
feels  like  gathering  you  in  one's  hands,  covering 
and  protecting  you  as  though  you  were  a  little 
bird. 

ADA  (leans  toward  him). 

ALFRED.  And  if  I  were  to  gather  you  to  my  heart, 
were  to  protect  you  like  some  dear  possession,  and 

64 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

then  one  day — and  yet,  no  one  could  ever  be  to 

you  what  I  am. 

ADA.  Never.  No  other  man  shall  ever  hold  me  in 

his  arms. 

ALFRED.  That  is  not  quite  what  I  meant. 

(CURTAIN) 


II 

(A  year  later.  A  Boudoir  with  secessionist  furnish 
ings.  On  a  small  book-shelf  is  to  be  seen  the  edition 
de  luxe  of  ALFRED'S  poems.  Above  it  hangs  the  poet's 
piffure.) 

(ADA  wears  a  dressing-gown  of  pale  green  silk. 
She  draws  in  the  air  with  sensuous  delight.  Upon 
her  face  lies  the  calm  of  the  satisfied  Woman- Animal. 
Her  thoughts  follow  him  who  has  just  left  her.) 

(At  that  moment  her  husband  enters.  Lightly  he  puts 
his  arms  around  her  and  kisses  her  forehead.) 

ADA  (with  sudden  compunffion).  How  good  you 

are! 

ALFRED.  Are  you  not  the  dearest,  loveliest,  most 

fragile  thing  in  all  the  world? 

(ADA'S  eyes  turn  to  the  copy  of  her  husband }s 
works  on  the  shelf,  then  to  hispifture,  and  finally 
fix  themselves  upon  his  face  which  beams  over 
her  benignantly .) 

ALFRED.  Well,  child? 

ADA  (plaintively).  Oh,  Alfred. 

ALFRED  (searches  her  face  with  a  strange  smile). 

ADA.  I  am  unworthy  of  you. 

ALFRED.  Why? 

ADA.  I  am  unworthy  of  your  love;  I  am  a  wicked 

woman. 

ALFRED.  Child,  be  calm,  whatever  you  have  done, 

you  cannot  have  been  wicked. 
66 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

ADA.  Oh,  I  deserve  that  you  kill  me  with  a  dag 
ger  and  drag  me  by  the  hair  instead  of  caressing 
me.  Be  just  to  yourself.  Drive  me  from  the  house 
that  I  have  dishonoured,  with  lashes  for  my  sin. 
ALFRED.  There  is  no  sin;  there  should  be  no 
punishment. 

ADA.  But  if  you  knew — 
ALFRED.  I  know. 
ADA.  Robert — 

ALFRED  (placidly].  What  of  it?  A  charming  boy. 
ADA  (looks  at  him  horror-struck). 
ALFRED.  In  fad  he  is  very  charming. 
ADA  (covers  her  face  with  her  hands). 
ALFRED.  I  am  quite  fond  of  him. 
ADA  (sobbing  hysterically).  Alfred,  this  is  frightful. 
You  might  have  spared  me  that — for  our  old  love's 
sake  you  might  have  spared  me  that.  It  were  bet 
ter  to  have  beaten  me,  to  have  strangled  me,  to 
have  lacerated  my  flesh  to  rags,  but  not  this  awful 
— this  unspeakable  irony. 
ALFRED  (with  infinite  mildness).  It  is  not  irony. 
ADA  (first  looking  at  him  as  if  she  distrusted  his 
sanity,  then  turning  pale  with  anger).  If  I  had  sus- 
peded  that!  And  so  I  am  as  indifferent  to  you  as 
a  piece  of  wood.  This  is  how  you  care  for  me.  And 
I  gave  you  my  youth;  I  let  you  absorb  me;  I  sat 
at  your  feet  night  and  day,  and  I  adored  you  as 
though  you  were  a  god.  (The  anger  oozes  from 
her.)  Oh,  I  am  a  very  unhappy  woman.  (Choking 
sobs  rise  in  her  throat  so  that  she  cannot  speak.) 

67 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &c. 

ALFRED.  You  are  ill,  child.  (He  presses  a  button?) 

(A  servant  appears  at  the  door?) 
ALFRED.  A  glass  of  water,  please.  (He  walks  up  and 
down  the  room  quietly?) 
ADA  (broods  sullenly). 

(The  servant  r centers^  bearing  a  glass  of  water?) 
ALFRED  (takes  it  from  him  at  the  door  and  forces  her 
to  drink  as  if  she  were  a  little  child]. 
ADA.  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  stand  before  your 
goodness  as  before  a  miracle.  I  should  kneel  be 
fore  you  as  before  the  image  of  the  Crucified  One 
—  kneel  until  my  knees  bleed.  For  I  have  broken 
my  faith  to  you. 

ALFRED.  You  err.  You  have  not  broken  faith 
with  me. 

ADA.  Your  belief  in  me  is  wonderful.  It  almost 
fills  one  with  fear  to  be  so  loved.  It  will  give  me 
strength  in  the  future.  But  first  there  must  be  no 
thing  between  us  but  the  naked  truth.  Robert — 
ALFRED.  I  know,  I  know.  I  came  a  little  later  on 
purpose,  so  as  to  leave  you  to  yourselves. 
ADA.  Are  you  an  angel  or  a  devil?  (Moaning?)  Do 
you  not  understand  —  it  was  not  a  harmless  flirta 
tion?  I  have  brutally  broken  the  faith  I  vowed 
you.  I   have  responded  to  another's   kisses,  his 
flesh  and  my  flesh,  my  blood  and  his,  were  one ! 
ALFRED  (with  slight  weariness].  But,  dear  child,  I 
know  it. 

ADA  (trembling].  And — ? 
ALFRED.  Your  views  are  strangely  Old  Testament, 

68 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

yet  you  boasted  of  being  a  modern  woman ! 
ADA.  Modernity!  Modernity!  That  is  a  phrase 
one  uses  in  polite  conversation,  not  when  one's  life 
is  at  stake ! 

ALFRED.  But  I  am  modern  and  have  learned  to 
mould  my  life  accordingly.  It  is  passing  strange 
that  in  the  presence  of  the  New  Man  the  New 
Woman  becomes  at  once  and  invariably  the  Old 
Eve.  Let  me  give  you  some  more  water;  it  will  do 
you  good.  You  are  calmer  already.  Just  sit  still, 
and  I  will  sit  down  next  to  you. 
ADA.  And  how  can  you  forgive  what  love  never 
forgives? 

ALFRED.  There  is  nothing  to  forgive. 
ADA.  And  you  will  continue  to  live  with  me? 
ALFRED.  Why  not?  Surely,  we  are  very  happy. 
ADA.  And  so  will  you  not  kill  me?  and  do  not  love 
me? 

ALFRED.  But  you  have  not  been  unfaithful  to  me. 
You  cannot  be,  not  even  if  you  would. 
ADA.  I  cannot  be? 

ALFRED.  You  can  be  unfaithful  to  me  only  with 
myself.  In  that  sense  you  are  untrue  to  me  daily; 
in  that  sense  we  are  all  untrue.  For,  look,  when 
we  get  to  know  any  one  we  make  unto  ourselves 
an  image  of  him,  and  it  is  this  image  of  him  that 
we  love.  The  man  himself  changes  from  day  to 
day.  Do  you  not  remember  my  telling  you  that? 
And  soon  he  is  no  longer  like  that  image,  or  pic 
ture  if  you  will,  even  if  at  first  the  resemblance  was 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

perfect.  The  man  has  become  another.  If  we  love 
this  other  we  are  untrue  to  the  object  of  our  first 
love.  But  if  our  love  clings  to  the  image,  to  the 
idea,  if  we  refuse  to  see  the  gradual  changes  deepen, 
then  we  become  untrue  to  the  man  himself.  And 
thus  it  is  that  with  himself  we  break  our  faith  with 
him. 

ADA.  And  so  you  assert  that  I  cannot  be  untrue 
to  you? 

ALFRED.  Only  if  another  means  to  you  exactly 
what  I  do,  to  body  and  to  soul,  in  the  present  and 
in  the  past.  Your  average  man  is  more  easily  re 
placed  than  I.  Robert  is  a  delightful  boy,  but  he's 
not  I ;  others  will  come,  but  they,  too,  will  not  be 
I.  I  will  tell  you  of  an  experience  in  my  life.  Mil 
dred— 

ADA.  You  have  never  spoken  to  me  of  her. 
ALFRED.  Because  I  do  not  care  to  drag  the  dead 
from  their  graves  and  touch  their  cere-cloth  with 
ghoulish  hands.  A  dead  love  is  either  profoundly 
indifferent  or  ineffably  sacred — in  either  case  we 
should  honour  it  with  silence. 
ADA.  And  for  that  reason  you  were  so  angry  when 
I  — 

ALFRED.  Yes,  because  it  is  terrible  when  men  will 
not  let  the  ghost  of  another's  love  rest  in  peace, 
but  from  mere  curiosity  shake  it  from  its  repose 
and  drive  it  to  wander  upon  earth  .  .  .  You  know  I 
loved  Mildred.  (The  echo  of  an  old  sorrow  stirs  his 
voice.)  She  died  for  me, — for  love  of  me.  Yonder 
her  corpse  lay  upon  the  chair  on  which  I  had 
70 


A  QUESTION  OF  FIDELITY 

sworn  her  eternal  faith.  And  here  I  sat — with  an 
other  woman. 
ADA.  My  mother? 

ALFRED.  I  spoke  of  my  sorrow  to  her.  She  con 
soled  me.  And  at  that  moment,  for  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  in  the  very  presence  of  the  dead  woman, 
a  sudden  desire  clutched  us  by  the  throat.  And 
yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  unfaithful  to  her.  The 
other  love  and  all  that  followed  had  their  place  in 
my  heart;  but  the  place  was  not  the  same.  No 
other  was  to  me  what  she  was.  The  heart  of  man 
is  a  house  of  many  mansions  and  hidden  chambers. 
It  is  not  so  narrow  as  the  moralists  would  have 
us  think. 

ADA.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  understand  you  or 
not.  I  am  as  one  who  gropes  in  darkness;  gleams 
of  light  come  to  the  eyes  of  my  soul,  but  their 
vision  is  blurred. 

ALFRED.  And  this  is  what  life  has  taught  me: 
Forgive  those  who  are  unfaithful  to  you,  for  un 
faithfulness  there  is  none.  Yield  to  the  lust  of  the 
flesh,  for  it  is  as  nothing.  Receive  every  love  that 
is  given  you,  for  it  will  make  you  rich.  Let  every 
love  that  spreads  its  wings  go  free,  for  so  it  is  or 
dained,  and  so  it  will  come  to  pass ;  and  who  would 
fetter  the  wind  with  chains  or  catch  the  gossamer 
in  a  snare?  This  is  the  Law, — the  new  Law.  It  is 
the  same  for  man  and  woman,  and  whoso  breaks 
it — breaks  his  heart. 

(He  takes  her  hand  in  his  and  caresses  it.) 
ADA.  The  gospel  you  preach  is  as  strange  as  it  is 

7' 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

new,  but  its  charity  at  least  is  boundless,  and  you 
will  not  have  been  compassionate  in  vain.  I  will 
never  see  him  more.  Robert — 
ALFRED.  Why  not?  I  have  no  objection  to  your 
receiving  his  visits. 


(CURTAIN) 


V 

THE  BUTTERFLY 

(A  MORALITY) 

I 


CHARACTERS 
DEATH 

A  BUTTERFLY 

CHORUS  OF  THINGS  THAT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN 
His  WIFE 
His  SONS 


I 

(A  Sleeping-Chamber  with  conventional  furnishings.  A 
table  bearing  medicine  flasks.  A  simple  bed  upon  which 
reposes  THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  At  his  head  stands 
DEATH  in  the  guise  of  a  skeleton  from  whose  shoulders 
falls  a  long  black  cloak.  He  is  shadowy  at  first  and 
scarcely  visible,  but  his  shape  assumes  definite  outline 
as  the  scene  progresses^) 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (musingly].  And  so  it 
seems  that  I  am  about  to  die  .  .  .  Must  die? 
Yes,  I  must.  It  is  strange  how  clear  my  thoughts 
are.  And  I  have  no  fear  of  Death, — no  fear.  Truly, 
why  should  I  fear  him?  He  comes  to-day,  or  to 
morrow,  or  yet  again  to-morrow — what  matters 
when?  And  in  the  grave,  under  a  green  mound, 
how  shall  I  slumber?  Shall  I  hear  the  grass  grow, 
and  the  flowers  open,  and  passing  swallows  beat 
their  wings?  Nay,  but  the  dead  hear  not,  for 
death  is  not  a  sleep  —  death  is  an  end,  an  end  of 
all,  and  knows  no  awakening.  Is  it  not  passing 
strange?  This  body  that  has  borne  me  for  sixty 
years  shall  cease,  cease  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 
Is  it  not  strange?  And  when  the  end  comes  I 
shall  not  know  nor  remember,  and  my  soul  shall  be 
as  nothing.  Is  it  not  very  strange?  —  But  of  this 
one  thing  is  my  heart  glad:  I  do  not  fear  death 
meanly  as  men  do,  fear  neither  Heaven  nor  Hell. 
Life  in  the  invisible  beyond  my  faith  could  not  and 
would  not  see  .  .  .  Yet  have  I  led  a  life  clean  and 
honourable  and  triumphant  over  temptation  in  the 

75 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  tfr. 

sight  of  all  men.  Yes,  I  have  fought  the  good 
fight,  not  as  a  child,  fearful  of  the  mother's  rod, 
but  through  the  freedom  of  my  manhood's  strength 
c  .  .  Bitter  is  the  sweetness  of  sin  ...  (he  smiles) 
and  now  I  must  die.  .  .  .  (He  gazes  through  the  win 
dow.)  Yonder  the  sun  grows  crimson  in  his  death 
—  dies  in  his  blood.  (Joyously.)  The  sun  and  I  — 
we  die  together;  together  having  done  our  good 
day's  work.  .  .  . 

(A  sound  is  heard  as  of  music  that,  soft  at  first, 
grows  in  intensity.  The  sun  sinks  below  the  horizon. 
A  perfume  of  poignant  sweetness  fills  the  room 
and  a  magical  light  illuminates  it.  A  chorus  enters 
of  female  forms ,  clad  in  many-coloured  raiment, 
and  bearing  a  shining  crown.) 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (with  great  wonder).  Who 
are  ye? 

CHORUS.  We  are  the  Things  that  Might  Have 
Been. 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  What  is  the  glittering 
something  that  ye  bear. 

CHORUS.  The  Crown  of  Life  that  never  pressed 
thy  brow,  the  happiness  whose  light  thy  temples 
never  felt  .  .  . 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (earnestly).  A  life  whose 
law  was  duty,  such  was  my  happiness. 
CHORUS.  We  are  that  life  which  thou  hast  never 
lived,  the  deeper  mysteries  which  thy  glance  never 
pierced  .  .  . 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (austerely).  I  was  a  faithful 
citizen  of  my  country;  I  leave  the  world  better  for 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

my  coming.  What  would  ye  more? 
CHORUS.  We  are  the  moment  of  power  that  passed 
thee,  we  bear  the  lily  of  might  thou  didst  not  dare 
to  pluck  .  .  .  We  are  honour,  power,  glory  .  .  . 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (insistently).  Not  unto  all 
is  it  given  to  rule.  I  did  what  lay  in  me. 
CHORUS.  We  are   the  unforgettable  deeds   thou 
mightst  have  done,  the  perished  dreams  lost  when 
thy  duty  to  others  made  thee  forget  thy  duties 
to  thyself  .  .  .  We  are  fame  that  bloomed  not 
for  thee;  the  laurel  we  bear  never  touched  thy 
locks .  . . 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  I  was  a  good  husband  to 
my  wife.  She  loved  me,  though  I  was  uncrowned 
of  fame. 

CHORUS.  We  are  the  word  of  love  thou  didst  not 
dare  to  speak.  We  are  the  women,  golden  and  dark 
of  hair,  with  eyes  of  azure,  emerald  and  amber, 
thou  mightst  have  loved;  their  gleaming  limbs 
we  are,  their  breasts,  their  arms,  their  shoulders  — 
which  thy  hands  never  touched.  We  are  the  crim 
son  blooms  upon  the  Tree  of  Life,  the  fire  of  lips 
unkissed  .  .  . 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (irritated).  I  was  a  good 
father  to  my  children,  made  of  them  useful  men 
and  women.  Was  not  that  better?  (His  voice  trem 
bles.)  Speak,  was  not  that  better?  Could  I  have 
been  that,  had  I  yielded  to  you? 
CHORUS.  We  are  the  mystical  children  of  dreams, 
unborn  of  women  whom  thou  didst  not  love  .  .  . 
We  are  minutes  and  hours  and  years  vanished  while 

77 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &t. 

thou  wert  busy  feeding  the  mouths  at  home  .  .  . 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (stung  out  of  his  calm).  My 
life  has  been  stainless,  and  in  that  consciousness 
my  heart  is  lifted  up !  If  I  passed  by  many  plea 
sures,  therein  I  was  right, — surely,  surely,  I  was 
right.  The  higher  happiness  I  did  not  lose.  Not 
all  chords  in  my  soul's  harmony  vibrated;  the 
chords  that  sounded  had  the  deeper  tone  .  .  . 
Blind  to  the  earth,  I  gazed  into  the  sun  .  .  . 
CHORUS.  We  are  the  pallid  moonlight  of  the 
soul .  .  e  We  are  the  passion  flowers  in  the  Garden 
of  Love  .  .  .  We  are  the  scarlet  hours  dreamed  of 
through  fevered  nights,  sweet-bitter  desires  un 
slaked,  golden  fruits  that  passion  brings  in  its 
golden  bowl  .  .  .  We  are  many-coloured  birds  in 
the  Paradise  of  Sin  .  .  .  We  are  the  nightingales 
that  sing  in  summer  nights  .  . .  We  are  the  flowers 
whose  fragrance  kills  .  .  .  We  are  the  purple  cloak 
of  beauty  about  the  skeleton  of  life  .  .  .  We  are  the 
music  whose  maddening  sweetness  never  thrilled 
thy  nerves — the  deathless  human  yearning  that 
utters  itself,  at  times  in  good,  oftener  in  evil  .  .  . 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  How  the  song  stirs!  A 
new  world  rises  before  my  dimmed  eyes,  a  gleam 
ing,  glittering  world.  Yet — was  it  not  greatly  done 
to  love  the  sun  and  flee  the  shades  that  lure  to 
deep  abysses?  . .  .  Have  I  not  tasted  all  ennobling 
feelings  as  father,  patriot,  friend?  Was  it  not  wise 
to  leave  the  chord  of  brutal  depths  unsounded? 
.  .  .  But  if  I  have  been  deceived,  if  I  have  not 
been  a  complete  man,  then  is  life  lost  indeed,  its 

78 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

columns  crumbling, — then  is  all  lost  .  .  . 
CHORUS.  We  dance  where  the  deep  shadows  are, 
we  are  secret  runes  in  the  Book  of  Fate — the 
splendid  consciousness  of  self  that,  having  lived 
through  all  that  is  human,  understands  all.  And 
because  thou  didst  not  know  us  thou  must  perish 
like  a  moth  dancing  in  a  sunbeam  .  .  . 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (whose  expression  has  grown 
to  be  one  of  helpless  despair,  feverishly  and  with  a 
shrill,  excited  voice).  Ah,  fool  that  I  was  who  thought 
to  be  a  complete  man,  thought  to  act  nobly  by 
keeping  you  afar  ...  by  fettering  my  soul,  then 
when  I  bit  my  lips  that  should  have  bled  with 
kisses,  not  with  pain  .  .  .  when  I  crucified  my  flesh 
and — lost  my  soul!  (Calmer.)  But  I  will  live  yet, 
— yet  snatch,  like  a  late  and  famished  guest,  some 
few  remnants  from  the  Banquet  of  Life  ...  I  will 
live  for  you — with  you — O  fair  and  evil  dreams, 
for  a  little  space  .  .  . 

DEATH  (whose  form  has  gradually  become  clear,  steps 
forward  and  stretches  forth  his  hand  with  a  gesture 
of  command  and  solemn  majesty).  It  is  too  late. 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Too  late? 
DEATH.  Thou  must  follow  me. 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Whither? 
DEATH.  Into  the  emptiness  without. 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Into  the  dreary  shadow? 
That  cannot  be,  it  is  too  terrible — now  that  I  see 
that  my  life  has  been  as  nothing!  —  From  void  to 
void! — 
DEATH.  From  void  to  void! 

79 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &t. 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Is  there  no  help? 

DEATH.  None. 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  And  so  from  life  unlived 

I  must  pass  unto  death. 

DEATH.  Unto  death. 

THE   RIGHTEOUS  MAN.  I  will  not!  I  defy  thee. 

Surely  the  will  is  mighty  and  my  heart  still  beats, 

still  throbs  passionately  in  my  breast.  Thou  must 

set  me  free!  I  cannot  follow  thee,  and  will  not. 

DEATH  (unmoved,  points  at  the  hour-glass  concealed 

under  his  cloak}. 

(And  now  the  CHORUS  has  faded  away.  ¥  he  family 

of  THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  enters.  His  WIFE  sits 

down  beside  him,  his  SONS  stand  with  heads  bent} 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (looks  upon  his  WIFE  with 

an  expression  of  horror  and  disgust}.  Thou  monster 

of  evil  omen,  get  thee  away  from  me !  Thou  hast 

stolen  my  happiness. 

THE  WIFE.  But  dear,  dear  husband,  thou  must 
know  me,  thy  good  wife  through  adversity  and 
prosperity,  in  labour  and  renunciation !  Thou  must 
remember  how  last  year  .  .  .  dear  God ! 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (who  has  listened  with  a 
petrified  look,  in  the  strident  accents  of  madness).  I 
know  thee  only  too  well,  thou  vampire,  thou  my 
lost  life.  Leave  me !  Leave  me !  Yonder,  yonder, 
are  those  whom  I  love! 

THE  WIFE  (looking  into  the  empty  space).  Where? 
ONE  SON.  He  knows  not  what  he  says;  it  is  the 
fever  that  speaks. 

80 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

THE  OTHER  SON.  Poor  father! 
THE  WIFE  (weeps  silently). 

THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (seeing  his  SONS,  bitterly).  O 
misbegotten  brood!  Yonder,  yonder,  are  the  chil 
dren  of  my  heart,  whom  I  starved  that  ye  might 
be  fed  ... 

(The  WIFE  and  SONS  overwhelmed,  draw  back.) 
DEATH  (unseen  of  the  others,  steps  close  to  the  bed). 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (seeing  him).  Fool  that  I 
was!  All  is  at  an  end.  My  curse  upon  the  state, 
upon  my  marriage,  my  children,  my  duty;  they 
have  slain  my  soul  ...  I  am  lost,  and  my  happi 
ness,  my  own  dear  happiness,  mine  by  right  .  .  . 
where  is  it?  You  have  cheated  me  of  it  ...  It  was 
so  fair,  this  happiness  of  mine,  seen  ever  only  from 
afar;  it  was  so  bright,  so  radiantly  beautiful  .  .  . 
Perhaps  I   had  caught  it,  had  ye  not  weighted 
my  feet  with  lead  .  .  . 
THE  WIFE  and  THE  SONS.  Father! 
THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  (hoarsely).  It  was  so  fair, — 
my  happiness, — so  fair  .  .  . 
DEATH  (softly  places  a  finger  upon  THE  RIGHTEOUS 
MAN'S  mouth). 

(At  that  moment  flutters  against  the  window-pane 
something  large  and  gaudy  like  to  a  BUTTERFLY.) 


(CURTAIN) 


81 


II 


CHARACTERS 
DEATH 

THE  BUTTERFLY 

DISGUST 

POSE 

ENNUI 

THE  SEVEN  SINS 

(UNTRUTHFULNESS,  PRIDE,  AVARICE,  ENVY,  MUR 
DER,  GLUTTONY,  UNCHASTITY) 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN 
THE  SOUL 


II 

(A  gorgeous  Chamber  illuminated  by  a  crimson  lamp, 
and  furnished  with  subtle  elegance.  Upon  a  bed  of 
purple  and  fine  linen  lies  THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN 
dying.  At  the  head  of  the  bedy  as  in  the  first  scene  ^ 
stands  DEATH.) 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (dreamily).  Slowly  the 
leaves  fell  from  the  linden-tree,  slowly  the  wind 
robbed  them  one  by  one,  and,  ere  the  tree  knew, 
it  stood  bare.  Like  beseeching  arms  it  stretched 
into  the  air  its  naked  boughs;  drearily  and  de 
spairingly  rustled  its  leaves  on  the  ground.  Sha 
dows  of  death  float  through  my  soul,  like  ebon 
swans  upon  an  argent  mere  .  .  .  The  trembling 
shadow  of  death  darkens  the  clusters  of  shimmer 
ing  orchids  .  .  .  The  bleeding  roses  droop,  as  if  in 
prayer,  their  fiery  blooms  .  „  .  It  is  the  hour  of 
parting  from  all  things  dear,  and  this  soul  of  mine 
will  flutter  far  like  a  helpless  bird — whither? 
whither?  Like  a  little  homeless  bird  will  it  lose  it 
self  in  the  infinite  void  which  is  the  universe  .  .  . 
Is  death  a  sleep,  and  will  an  angel  some  day  come 
unto  all  graves  and  wake  the  sleepers  with  a  lily 
wand? .  .  0  Will  the  celestial  armies  sing  before  the 
sun  measures  sweeter  than  the  sobbing  of  nightin 
gales  on  earth? . .  „  It  matters  little.  I  arise  from  the 
feast  of  life,  satisfied.  Dying  as  I  have  lived,  I  force 
even  death  to  yield  me  a  strange  and  subtle  pleasure 
from  its  very  pain.  I  can  say  truly  that  I  have 
lived  my  life,  have  tasted  it  with  every  nerve,  have 

85 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  &f. 

burned  my  heart  in  the  flame  of  every  passion, 
and  struck  each  chord  upon  the  gamut  of  human 
emotion  with  a  masters  hand  ...  I  have  walked 
hand  in  hand  with  beauty,  often  by  abysses  of  ter 
rible  loveliness  wherein  flames  quivered,  orange 
and  red  and  violet.  I  have  trodden  the  grapes  of 
pleasure  in  the  winepress  of  life.  I  have  lived  like 
a  philosopher,  and  thus  will  I  die  ... 

(Hideous   noises  are   heard  in   the   hall.  Hoarse 
voices;  screeches;  obscene  sounds.  Enter  ENNUI, 
DISGUST,  PosEy  followed  by  THE  SEVEN  SINS.) 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Who  dares  to  intrude 
here?  Who  are  you? 

ENNUI  (greenish-comflcxioned)  peevishly).  Old  ac 
quaintances. 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (coldly).  I  do  not  ac 
knowledge  the  acquaintance. 
ENNUI  (yawning  again).  Dost  thou  not?  These 
fine  gentlemen  usually  have  short  memories.  I  am 
called  Ennui,  and  it  is  I  who  brought  into  thy  life 
the  Seven  Sins  .  .  . 

DISGUST  (ashen  in  complexiony  hiccoughs).  And  I 
who  stung  thee  from  repose  again  and  again  on 
the  search  after  new  sensations, — as  one  that  sea 
sons  tainted  food  with  unheard-of  spices, —  I  am 
Disgust. 

POSE  (with  painted  lips  Jauntily).  And  I,  who  do  not 
desert  thee  even  on  thy  death-bed,  I  am  called  Pose. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (amiably).  I  appreciate 
your  coming,  but  by  all  means  rid  me  of  this  dis 
gusting  crowd. 
86 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

POSE.  Impossible.  I  have  served  thee  faithfully, 
but  there  are  moments  in  life  when  every  face  must 
drop  its  mask,  and  this  is  such  an  one. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (with  careless  ease).  Very 
well,  then.  If  you  wish  to  amuse  me  with  your 
comedy  even  when  I  am  dying — I  am  satisfied.  I 
can  find  pleasure  even  in  this.  In  fad:,  it  is  charm 
ing  of  you.  I  am  extremely  interested.  But  will 
you  not  introduce  these  ladies  to  me? 
DISGUST.  They  know  thee  well. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Who  are  they? 
DISGUST.  The  Seven  Sins. 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Ladies,  I  am  enchanted. 
Permit  me  to  inquire  what  you  carry  there? 
THE  SEVEN  SINS.  A  little  table. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  What  is  it  for? 
THE  SEVEN  SINS.  A  dissecting  table. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (pointing  to  a  veiled  some 
thing  upon  the  table).  And  what  is  that? 
DISGUST  (removes  the  veily  and  a  little  dove  with 
ruffled  feathers  is  seen). 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  What  kind  of  a  little 
beast  is  that? 

THE  SEVEN  SINS.  A  dove — thy  soul. 
THE   UNRIGHTEOUS    MAN.  How  delightful  .  .  . 
Ah,  poor  little  dove,  hast  thou  hurt  thy  wings? 

(The  dove  opens  its  eyes.) 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Dear  little  soul,  I  do 
not  wonder  that  thy  feathers  are  ruffled  when  such 
rude  hands  touch  thee  .  .  .  There,  you  stupid 

87 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fefr. 

wenches,  leave  my  soul  in  peace! 
THE  SEVEN  SINS.  It  is  too  late.  Thy  soul  is  ac 
customed  to  us,  for  it  has  never  been  nourished 
from  other  hands  than  ours. 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  That  admits  of  discus 
sion;  my  sins  had  nothing  in  common  with  you, 
and  upon  the  whole,  you  weary  me.  (To  DISGUST, 
who  is  scribbling  on  a  scrap  of  paper,)  What  art  thou 
writing  there? 

DISGUST.  The  list  of  thy  sins,  or  perhaps  the  pro 
gramme  of  the  comedy  we  enact  .  .  .  Thy  whole 
life  hast  thou  played  at  comedy,  and  loved  it;  why 
should  thy  death  be  aught  else?  .  .  . 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Very  well;  let  the  play 
begin.  For  I  feel  that  I  am  growing  weaker.  (He 
looks  into  a  hand-glass^) 
POSE  (interrupting).  And  more  fascinating. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Very  true. 

(THE  SEVEN  SINS  have  in  the  meantime  formed  a 
semi-circle  about  the  bed.  DISGUST  stands  on  one 
side^  ENNUI  on  the  other.  POSE  takes  up  her  station 
at  some  distance.  DEATH  remains  motionless.  From 
the  semi-circle  UNTRUTHFULNESS  steps  forth.) 
POSE  (softly).  My  little  sister. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Who  art  thou,  painted 
creature,  repulsive  harlot  of  the  false  hips?  Surely 
I  had  no  dealings  with  thee! 

UNTRUTHFULNESS  (sweetly).  I  am  thy  most  faith 
ful  friend,  the  meaning  of  thy  life,  the  word  that 
issued  daily  from  thy  lips  .  .  . 

88 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (contemptuously}.  Not 
thou.  The  lies  that  I  spoke  were  exquisite  lies. 
They  brought  joy  and  ecstasy;  they  were  works  of 
art,  or  rather  like  the  essence  of  the  lotus-flower; 
like  blue  flowers  they  were,  or  little  elves  with 
golden  wings  and  silver  stars  in  their  hair  .  .  . 
POSE.  So  it  seems  to  thee,  because  thou  always 
sawest  my  little  sister  through  stained  glasses.  (She 
passes  her  hands  over  his  eyes} 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Ah  God!  How  the 
picture  changes !  No  more  of  thee ! 

(UNTRUTH FULNESS  steps  back.  'Then  comes  forth 
with  mincing  steps  infinitely  grotesque  PRIDE.) 
PRIDE.   I   am  Pride.  Under  my  spell  thou  hast 
shrugged  thy  shoulders  at  God  and  his  Universe. 
Thou  wast  — 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  An  aristocrat  of  the 
Intellect 

PRIDE.  A  fool.  Thou  didst  build  unto  thyself  a 
high  tower,  and  didst  gaze  down  from  it  upon  man 
kind.  But  the  tower  was  builded  of  sophistries  and 
rose  into  the  skies  of  Delusion.  Verily  had  the 
worth  of  men  been  weighed  in  a  golden  balance 
thy  weight  would  have  proved  lighter  than  that  of 
the  meanest  among  them. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (makes  an  averting  gesture). 

(A  little  man  with  bird-like  claws  steps  forth} 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Who  art  thou,  thing 
of  horror?  Surely  thou  art  a  stranger  to  me,  thou 
with  the  rheumy  eyes,  hideous  monster,  malodor 
ous  carrion  thou? 

89 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  WV. 

AVARICE  (whimpers).  I  am  Avarice.  Look  into 
mine  eyes.  Thou  knowest  me  well.  Oh,  thou  wert 
not  sparing  of  gold,  thou  threwest  to  the  poor 
many  a  thoughtless  alms  —  thou  must  look  deeper. 
Thou  didst  bury  thy  talent,  thou  thoughtest  to 
have  found  Happiness,  and  wouldst  not  throw  to 
any  mortal  even  a  crumb  from  thy  store.  Thou 
didst  keep  truth  locked  in  thy  soul  and  didst  not 
spend  one  grain  of  it ...  Did  thy  heart  ever,  for  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  beat  for  another? . .  „  Didst  thou 
give  any  morsel  of  the  Love  that  was  in  thee? .  „ . 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (taken  aback,  interrupts 
him).  But  my  philosophy  —  perhaps  thou  art  right 
—  My  .  .  .  Another  vision! 

(Thereupon  approaches  a  little  man  with  jaun 
diced  skin  and  distorted  features.) 
ENVY  (maliciously).  I  am  Envy. 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  Envy? 
ENVY.  Who  but  I  sat  behind  thee  driving  thee  to 
ever  new  excesses?  If  any  one  had  accomplished 
a  great  task  in  good  or  in  evil,  it  gave  thee  no 
peace  till  thou  hadst  surpassed  him  —  in  evil.  Dost 
thou  not  know  me? 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (with  toneless  voice).  I 
know  thee. 

(The  dove  beats  its  wings.  THE  UNRIGHTEOUS 
MAN  sinks  into  meditation.  Forth  steps  a  pallid, 
menacing  figure.  His  intellectual  face  is  branded 
with  an  expression  of  such  fierce  cruelty  that  THE 
UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  trembles  involuntarily^) 

MURDER.  Thou  knowest  me.  I  am  the  plaything 
90 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

of  thy  dreams.  For  my  sake  thou  wast  envious  of 
the  Borgias  and  of  the  Roman  emperors.  But  even 
they  were  but  blunderers  compared  to  thee  .  .  . 
They  slew,  they  poisoned  the  body  and  tortured 
it,  but  thou  slewest  souls  with  thy  soul.  Little 
brother,  dost  thou  remember  me? 

(He  cackles  with    hoarse   laughter  and  whiskers 
something  into  THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN'S  ear.) 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (pales). 

(T'he  convulsions  of  the  little  dove  become  in  tenser.] 
(The  moon  recedes  behind  clouds?) 
(After  a  brief  space  GLUTTONY  steps  forth?] 
GLUTTONY  (sucking  its  teeth).  Ah,  sweetheart, 
we  enjoyed  life,  did  we  not?  We  ate  pheasants' 
tongues  and  rare  mushrooms  and  drank  foaming 
wine  .  .  .  And  thou  didst  right.  For  soon  must 
thou  eat  earth  and  the  fruits  of  corruption,  and 
drink  the  water  of  the  grave  .  .  .  Think  of  me  who 
sat  daily  at  thy  board,  covering  my  ungainly  form 
with  purple  and  my  baldness  with  vine-leaves  .  .  . 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (makes  a  gesture  of  dis 
gust). 

GLUTTONY  (with  strident  'voice).  Ah,  thou  needest 
not  be  so  queasy  now.  Have  I  not  eaten  four  times 
daily  at  thy  table,  even  if  thou  gavest  me  another 
name  and  a  decent  little  cloak?  .  .  . 

(THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  covers  his  head.  'The 
dove  grows  more  quiet  and  lets  its  weary  little 
wings  hang  down!) 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (softly).  Ah,  perhaps  all 


A  GAME  AT  LOVE,  fcfr. 

of  you  are  in  the  right — all.  My  life  was  fearfully 
small  and  mean.  Waste  places  I  saw  through  a  rosy 
haze,  and  my  foot  trod  on  treacherous  quicksands 
.  .  .  But  one  consolation  remains  to  me:  I  have 
loved  regally,  splendidly — with  a  love  that  moves 
Heaven  and  Hell,  with  a  great,  a  beautiful  love — 
not  a  good  love — did  I  say  good?  Nay,  I  said 
great,  fair,  splendid,  purple  .  .  . 

(From  among  THE  SEVEN  SINS  approaches  a  wo 
man  regally  clad  in  purple  raiment,  who  has  until 
now  remained  in  the  background^) 
THE   UNRIGHTEOUS   MAN    (looking  joyfully   upon 
her).  Thou  —  thou  understandest  me  .  .  .  Speak! 
was  I  not  a  King  in  the  Golden  House  of  Love? 
a  very  God  in  the  Garden  of  Passionate  Dreams, 
where  Birds  of  Paradise  whir  through  the  twilight? 
...  I  have  blended  Heaven  and  Earth,  have  I 
not?  Speak! 

UNCHASTITY  (tenderly).  Surely,  my  beloved,  thou 
didst  all  this. 

(She  bends  over  him.) 

THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN.  What  is  it  that  passes 
from  thee?  Art  thou  the  Pest? 
UNCHASTITY.  Nay,  my  dearest,  I  am  Love,  thy 
love,  who  comes  from  the  scented  garden  where 
Birds  of  Paradise  whir  through  the  twilight  .  .  . 
My  breasts  are  white  like  two  small  cockatoos. 
My  figure  is  slender  as  a  palm-tree,  and  red  as  the 
lotus-flower  are  my  lips  which  thou  kissed  till  they 
bled!  Am  I  not  fair?  See,  my  beloved,  see!  ... 


THE  BUTTERFLY 

(The  purple  cloak  glides  to  the  floor  and  reveals  a 
body  corroded  with  canker?) 

DEATH  (who  has  slowly  become  visible,  steps  forth). 
THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN  (tries  to  speak.) 

(The  dove  beats  its  wings  convulsively.) 
DEATH  (lays  his  finger  on  THE  UNRIGHTEOUS  MAN'S 
lips). 

(The  little  dove  lets  its  feet  and  head  hang  limply ; 
its  feathers  fall  out  and  its  little  naked  dead  form 
is  left?) 

(THE  SEVEN  SINS  and  their  companions  have  faded 
away?) 

(Out  of  the  room  of  THE  RIGHTEOUS  MAN  comes 
the  glittering  form  of  the  BUTTERFLY.  //  flies  in 
through  the  open  window,  touches  lightly  the  brow 
of  the  dead  man  and  flutters  away.  The  beat  of  its 
wings  sounds  for  a  little  while  like  the  echo  of  a 
song  heard  from  afar?) 


(CURTAIN) 


THE  END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


1936 


4  1936 


JUL    ^9  <937 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


JB  32049 


899166 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


